Season Five: New York, New York
by Yahtzee
Summary: My own take on a fifth season for UB - in New York City, rather than London. Betty/Daniel focused, but with storylines for all the major characters. Posting elsewhere from chapter 23 onward.
1. Anchored

**Anchored**

3 a.m. 

Betty turned all the locks on her apartment door, then slumped against it, so weary that she felt like merely sliding down to the floor. She could sleep there, even in her green dress and lilac wrap, earrings and all. It would be easier than ever moving again.

But she kept going, setting her high heels on the breakfast table as she padded along in her brand-new baby-blue slippers. Betty realized she could feel the stiffness of dried tears on her cheeks. This miserable day seemed to have lasted for a thousand years.

Though her only thought was of getting into bed, or just falling upon it, she found herself walking instead to the sofa where she'd left her laptop.

_I can't sleep_, she realized. _Not until I get this out of my system. _

So, she'd write it out.

When the screen glowed in front of her face, Betty shook out what little of her hairdo remained, loaded her blog's "Compose Post" form, and started typing.

"_Anchored"_

_Today – or yesterday, I should say – my sister got married to the man of her dreams. It was a day that reminded me of everything love can and should be. That some dreams really do come true. _

_And some dreams don't. _

_I should know. _

Yesterday Afternoon

"It's a great feeling, isn't it?" Daniel smiled down at her, his expression both totally familiar and yet somehow new to her. "When everything's … right with the world."

"Yeah. It is." Betty squeezed his hand in hers, and he responded by pulling her closer, so that her head rested against his shoulder.

Kind of flirty, dancing like this – but then, that was a wedding for you. Everybody flirted. Everybody drank champagne. Everybody dreamed big dreams about how the future would be perfect from now on.

In her case, they weren't just dreams. Betty watched her father pull Elena back onto the dance floor, while Justin hooked his arms around Austin's neck in a totally unashamed embrace. Nearby, Hilda was laughing, as beautiful a bride as she could ever have wished to be. She had never felt closer to her family – and never more ready to walk away.

_I don't have to take care of them forever,_ she reminded herself. _ I can take care of myself for a while. I can follow my dream. Follow my heart. _

And for a moment, London seemed close enough to touch. She could just see it: Trafalgar Square. The Millennium Bridge. The London Eye. Herself in the center of it all: glowing, confident, successful. Hailing a black cab. Easily navigating the Tube. Standing at the head of a conference table, leading an editorial meeting at her very own magazine. It was everything she'd ever wanted, and everything she hadn't known she needed. Deep within, Betty could feel a kind of warmth spreading through her – the sensation, she thought, that birds must feel just as they spread their wings.

Daniel murmured, "You seem far away."

Daydreaming, he meant, but the phrase struck close to home. The song they were dancing to stopped, and she shook her head to clear her thoughts, bring herself back to the hear and now. "Sorry. I just need to – I'll be back in a second, all right?"

"All right." He smiled at her gently as she stepped out of his arms, their hands remaining clasped a second longer, like he was sorry to let her go. That new short haircut of his made him look a little older – not in a bad way – and, she thought, strangely vulnerable. Surely that was why her heart ached a little as she moved away from him.

For the first time, Betty realized that leaving New York and MODE would mean leaving Daniel. It hurt even thinking about that; she hadn't realized how much it would hurt. But she'd think about that later. Now, she was going to call Lindsey Dunne.

Betty collected her clutch bag, fished out her phone and walked toward the lobby. As she scrolled back, searching for his number in her contacts, she heard Justin say, "Grandpa?"

Which didn't seem like anything until she heard Elena scream.

Whirling around, Betty saw her father slump to the floor.

Everything seemed to switch to slow motion, terror stretching out every moment, every thought, to an unendurable length. She wanted to run to him, but that split second before her feet moved seemed to last an eternity. The adrenalin of fear tensed her body and sharpened every image around her: balloons floating downward, Marc's red dinner jacket as he clutched his hand to his open mouth, the glass of champagne in Hilda's hand slipping from her fingers. Dad's head lolling to the side as he lay in front of her, unconscious.

"He's having another heart attack," Elena said, and the slow motion was over. Betty's world slammed into overdrive.

"Call 911!" she shouted, before realizing she was the one with the phone already in her hands. With shaking fingers, she punched in the numbers, staring down at her father on the floor. His face was ashen – almost blue –

"911 Emergency."

"Yes! My father's having a heart attack – we're sure, it's happened before, there's a nurse right here and she says so – we need an ambulance!" Betty raked one hand through her hair before realizing it was still tied back in a bun; strands of it fell around her face. "Oh, God, please hurry."

"Papi?" Hilda was holding his hand as Elena unfastened his tie and bent closer to him – to see if he was still breathing, Betty realized.

_Oh, my God. He could die. Dad might be dying. _

Daniel's hand closed over her shoulder to steady her, and Betty clutched at his wrist with her free hand. "Please hurry," she repeated, as her eyes filled with tears.

"Okay, so, that was the worst wedding reception _ever_." Amanda plopped down next to Marc at one of the abandoned tables. His expression was as forlorn as his slightly askew, wilting pompadour. "And I'm counting the one where Bradford Meade and Wilhelmina didn't even get married. At least that heart attack I didn't have to actually watch."

"And after all that, we got to release Posh from her captivity," Marc pointed out.

"Oh, right. That actually rocked. This didn't." She put her chin in her hands. When bad things happened to the few people in the world she actually liked, Amanda got this nasty squidgy feeling inside, as though she were hollow. Cake might fill that hollow place up. She seized an abandoned piece and dipped her finger into a frosting rose as she said, very quietly, "You don't think Mr. Suarez is going to die, do you?"

"I don't know." Marc sighed heavily just as Spencer came toward their table, drinks in hand. "I hope not. Poor Hilda. Poor Justin. Poor Betty. Poor dear cuddly little Mexican people in general. I hate this."

"How are you kids holding up?" Spencer said, putting glasses of something stronger than champagne in front of them both. "That was like something straight out of my show. Except no secret long-lost siblings popping up."

"I ought to call Tyler," Amanda murmured.

Marc said, "I keep trying to think of something useful to do. It's like I want to … help."

"Lie down," Amanda said. "It'll pass."

"No, I actually want to help them. Oh, my God. Is this what decency feels like? It's all … warm and soft and yet unbelievably constricting. Like those skin-tight Michael Kors cashmere sweaters for fall." Marc took a swig of the alcohol and made a face. Spencer patted his shoulder, but not like he was hitting on him. More like he was being nice. So much for that fix-up, Amanda thought; in her experience, fix-ups and niceness rarely went together.

"Betty might lose her dad," she said. "And she has a good dad. The kind everybody wants. Good dads should get to stick around longer. They should be around forever and ever. Only the bad ones should go away."

Marc patted her knee. "We wish, sweetie."

Spencer said, "Amanda, I'm your father."

They stared at him. He stared back, taking a deep breath before he gave her a very uncertain smile.

"Wait." She put her fingers to her temples, as if they were the rewind buttons for her brain. "What did you just say?"

"I'm your father," Spencer repeated, before going into a long story about a party and mistaking Fey Summers for Andy Warhol, and hiring her for his stylist so he could get to know her, and even though it was totally crazy and made no sense whatsoever, Amanda believed him even before he tugged his pants down to show her the Tweety tattoo. As she clutched Marc's arm, Spencer finished, "I was trying to find the right time to tell you – and then that poor man collapsed, and I started thinking about how short life is, and you began talking about fathers, and, well … I couldn't keep it back any longer."

"It's a Hallmark Hall of Fame Movie moment." Marc kept looking back and forth between them as though he were watching a tennis match.

"You're my dad?" Amanda whispered. Her father was a gay man. It – it made _so much _sense.

Nodding, Spencer said, "And I'd like to be in your life if you'll let me be."

She flung her arms around him. "I have a dad! A fabulous dad!"

_And_, she thought, _if I got my father back, maybe Betty will too. _

Be careful what you ask for, Wilhelmina thought in a daze. Because you might just get it.

She'd meant to turn Tyler against Claire Meade – meant to weaken him, turn him back to the bottle. But if she'd ever realized it could lead to this moment, where he stood in front of Claire with a loaded gun in his hand …

Well, she'd made this mess. She'd get them out of it.

"Tyler, listen to me." Wilhelmina carefully stepped in front of Claire, putting herself between the old bag and the gun. "You don't have to do this."

Tears welled in Tyler's eyes – he wanted to back down, wanted it desperately, but his grip was only tightening around the gun –

His phone rang, and they all jumped; mercifully, he didn't squeeze the trigger. It was the first time she'd ever felt mortal terror to The Black Eyed Peas' "Boom Boom Pow." As Wilhelmina pressed one hand to her chest, trying to keep her heart inside her rib cage, Claire's voice sounded bizarrely low and calm: "Shouldn't you get that?"

_Yes! _ Wilhelmina thought. _Distract him! _ It was the first time she'd ever believed Claire was making sense.

Although Tyler kept hanging onto the gun, he used his free hand to fish his phone from his pocket. He mashed at it with his thumb while it was still several inches from his face. Raggedly, he said, "Hello?"

"Tyler!" That moron Amanda Tanen squealed into the phone so loudly that they could all hear her throughout the room. "You'll never believe what happened at the wedding. Something amazing! Also something awful. But I called to tell you the amazing thing. I found my birth father!"

Tyler didn't answer her; he didn't seem to be able to speak. But his gaze was shifting from the two women in front of his gun to the phone he held.

Amanda, oblivious to any lack of response, burbled on: "It's Spencer. You know, my client! It turns out he hired me so we could get to know each other…which is maybe not so encouraging for my business. But he loves me, Tyler. I really have a father who loves me. Was it like that when you found Claire again?"

Behind her, Wilhelmina heard Claire's throat catch, as if she were trying not to cry. Tyler squeezed his eyes tightly shut.

"I just can't get over it," Amanda's tinny voice proclaimed from the speaker. "And it's so sad – the awful thing? Betty's father had a heart attack. He might even die. I don't know what's happening. It just makes me so glad I have my dad now. You know?"

"Yeah," Tyler said "Yeah, I know."

And slowly, he set down the gun.

Wilhelmina grabbed it the second he let go, opening the chamber and removing the bullets. "Take this, would you?" She thrust the gun at Claire.

"Jesus Christ." Claire leaned heavily against the light table. "You nearly went too far this time, Wilhelmina."

"When it came down to it, I got between you and the gun," Wilhelmina snapped. "Believe me, I'd rather sacrifice my life for a new pair of Blahniks. But I did it anyway."

"I won't forget any part of what you've done today. Either how you hurt my son – or how you tried to warn me." But Claire wasn't really paying any attention to Wilhelmina Slater any longer; she walked to her son's side as he held the phone to the side of his face, his fingers gripping it so hard they were white – like Amanda Tanen could be a lifeline. Some people really were desperate.

When Claire put her hand on Tyler's arm, he looked at his mother and mouthed the words, _Forgive me. _ Claire leaned her head against him and breathed out one long shaky sigh.

Wilhelmina stared down at the bullets in her hand. She asked herself, for the thousandth time, just how much she wanted a slice of Meade Publications.

For the first time ever, her answer was, _Not that much. _

She dropped the bullets into the nearest trash can.

The hospital gift shop sold slippers – powder pastel slip-ins, terry cloth granny shoes, but they'd do. Daniel bought a sky-blue pair in what he hoped was the right size and hurried back.

The ER waiting room looked like Bobby and Hilda's reception gone horribly awry: There was still a bride in her gown, still a groom in his tux, still Justin in his shiny suit with a little confetti in his hair. And there was Betty in her green bridesmaid's dress, looking so lost and forlorn—

Daniel felt it like a physical tug, the link between her sadness and his heart. He wanted to put his arms around her, tell her everything would be all right – he wanted to_ make _everything be all right, to go back there and offer the doctors all his money if that was all it took to fix it – though, of course, it wasn't.

And this new feeling for Betty, this sense that her pain hurt him just as much as it did her … no. It wasn't new. It had been a part of him for a long time, growing roots deep inside years before it bloomed for him to see. And it was so precious, so necessary, that it scared the hell out of him. He would've denied it if he could, Daniel thought; he wasn't proud of that, but he knew that was the truth.

With Betty so lost and frightened, though, he was past any denial. Daniel would figure out exactly what it meant – what he wanted to do about it – he'd worry about it later. Right now, he knew the only thing he could do was stay by her side.

Daniel held out the slippers in their plastic package. "Here. Your feet – you said they hurt – "

"Oh, Daniel. Thank you." Betty began tugging at the straps of her high heels, clearly eager to shed them.

"Can I get you – any of you – I could run down the cafeteria, get coffee, something like that," Daniel said. If he could do something for the Suarez family - if only he could give Betty some kind of comfort, some kind of strength – then he wouldn't feel so damned useless.

Strange, to think of Betty needing strength: Usually she was the one who gave it to him.

"Nobody's hungry," Elena said. "We're all still stuffed with wedding cake and punch."

Hilda brushed her hair back from her face. "I oughta call the resort. Tell them we're rescheduling our honeymoon." She took Bobby's hand. "Baby, I'm sorry. I know you didn't imagine your wedding night like this."

"And you did?" Bobby put his arm around her shoulders. "We're in this together, Hilda. Like the man said, 'for better or for worse.' That's what marriage is, you know? We just hit one of the 'worse' parts real early."

Though the thought of wedding vows reminded him of Molly, and other hospital rooms –

He put his arm around Betty, just like Bobby had with Hilda. When Betty's head leaned against his shoulder, he closed his eyes and wished he were enough of a believer to pray.

Once again, he felt that tidal pull toward her – the depth of emotion that surprised him – and tried not to think about it too much. This wasn't the time. But Daniel knew he'd never been as aware of Betty: her pain, her strength, even the soft scent of her skin.

Austin said, "He had a heart attack before, right? But he came through that."

"How many can you live through?" Hilda wiped at her cheeks.

"Don't talk like that," Betty said. "Dad's strong. We're not going to give up on him. He wouldn't give up on us."

The others all straightened, even brightened a little; as usual, Betty's strength supported everyone around her.

Only Daniel could feel that she was shaking.

He tightened his arm around her and tried to be the strong one for a change.

Marc strutted into the Meade building, hoping for some shadow of his usual panache despite the wilted hair and the flop sweat. Witnessing a near-fatal heart attack could completely devastate a look.

As he entered the MODE offices, he called, "Willie! I'm here! What's so urgent that it can't – oh, my Gaga."

The scene in front of him was one he'd never expected to see: Wilhelmina Slater and Claire Meade, linked arm in arm – supporting a very disheveled, very drunk, Tyler. Marc could believe the drunk-Tyler part, just not the part where Willie and Claire were actually touching each other and not bursting into flame.

"We're going to the Horizons Clinic," Claire said, naming the most exclusive rehab center in all of Manhattan. They wouldn't even take Lindsay Lohan, even though she was sure to be a repeat customer. "You're going to drive."

"Me, drive?" Marc tried to put this together.

Willie snapped, "Tyler's had too much to drink. Claire and I haven't had nearly enough, after the night we've been through. You'll take Claire's car."

Though he was glad to do it, if for no other reason to get a glimpse of the fabled Horizons – who knew who else might be in the lobby? – Marc had to ask: "Why not just hail a taxi?"

Tiredly, Claire explained, "I have this dream where just once in my life all my family's dirty laundry isn't aired in the tabloids. Tonight, my dream is coming true. In other words, nobody's taking any cell phone footage of us out on the sidewalk, and if one word of this appears in the POST, I'll fire both of you retroactive to 2006 and demand you repay your salaries since then, I swear to God."

"Relax, will you?" Wilhelmina brushed Tyler's dark hair back from his forehead – not quite tenderly, Marc thought, but as if she were … actually worried. "Marc can keep his mouth shut. Trust me, I know."

"Hit me with the keys," Marc said. "Let's get this show on the road."

He held his hands out, and Claire tossed the keys neatly into his palm. As Willie towed Tyler to his feet, Tyler looked straight at Marc for the first time that evening. His eyes were bloodshot, and he trembled all over. He should have looked pathetic, but somehow, he didn't. Instead, he looked serious and even hopeful as he said, "You'll tell Amanda where I went, right?"

Marc nodded. "Of course."

"Tell her – tell her – when I get out – I'm gonna be clean again, and the first thing I'm gonna do is call her. She doesn't – it's not like she has to wait for me, not if she doesn't want to – " Tyler wavered on his feet, but Willie and Claire caught him. "Just tell Amanda, no matter what – I'm gonna wait for her."

_He loves her_, Marc realized. _This guy loves my Mandy. Somebody really, truly loves her. _

He knew he ought to feel happy for her. He did, mostly. But a small jealous part of his soul whispered, _Why can't somebody love me? _

Tyler rasped, "Will you tell her?"

"Absolutely," Marc said. "And for the record – I bet she'll wait."

His reward was Tyler's unshaven face breaking into an uneven but sincere smile.

After the doctor left, Betty kept clasping Daniel's hand as she turned to Elena. "Okay, explain what he just said in human English."

"Ignacio's condition is stabilizing," Elena said. Her stare was distant, her eyes troubled. "They think he'll live."

"Oh, thank Jesus." Hilda sagged against Bobby. "That's good news, right? I kept thinking the doctor was telling us good stuff, but nobody was smiling."

"Grandpa's alive," Justin insisted. Already he was texting Austin the news; his boyfriend had gone home almost an hour ago. "That's got to be good."

Elena didn't smile. Betty asked, "What aren't you saying? Is there something they didn't tell us?"

"This one was bad." Elena took a deep, shuddering breath. "His heart's been seriously damaged. His recovery … it's going to take longer than last time. And he might not ever be the same."

Silence descended over their group. Daniel's hand tightened around hers, and Betty was grateful for his quiet, steady presence; she never even turned her head to look at him, but it was enough just to know he was there.

In a small voice, Justin said, "But he's going to live. Right?"

"He'll live through the night," Elena said. "He'll probably leave this hospital. But – it's too early to tell, I shouldn't be talking like this – "

Betty insisted, "Just say it."

Elena's head drooped in surrender. "There's no saying how long he'll have."

"That's crazy talk." Hilda rose to her feet, re-energized by anger. "Papi's going to be fine. You'll see. He's going to show all of you."

"Don't yell at Elena," Betty said. "We asked." Slowly she rose to her feet; though she had expected Daniel to let go of her hand, he rose with her instead, and she found she didn't want to release him. "I'm going in to see Dad."

"I need a minute," Hilda said. Bobby and Justin closed ranks around her; Elena remained too, obviously wanting to put things right before any more time passed.

But Betty knew she didn't want to make this walk alone. She looked up at Daniel and said, "Come with me?"

"Of course."

They made their way down the long corridor, hand in hand. Betty realized she'd left her heels in the waiting room; she was padding across the linoleum in the puffy slippers Daniel had bought for her, as though she were another patient. That felt about right. There ought to be a wing for broken hearts. They could check her in, lie her down, give her something to take all this hurt away. If only.

_Dad's dying. Maybe dying. He might have years left – or he might have days. I thought he didn't need me to look after him anymore, but now he does. _

_I can't go to London. _

No sooner had the thought appeared than she pushed it aside. What did that matter, now? Dad was deathly ill. He needed her. That was the only thing that mattered, the only thing she was going to think about.

When they reached the doorway of the room where her father laid, Daniel murmured, "Do you want me to wait out here?"

He meant to give her some privacy, she realized – but she also realized she didn't need it. Not from Daniel. If Hilda and Justin had been with her, that would be one thing; they would want a moment just for their family. But they weren't here yet, and Betty didn't want to face this alone if she didn't have to. She looked up at Daniel, and her voice wavered as she asked, "Stay with me?" Daniel brushed his thumb along the back of her hand, the only reply she needed; then he followed her in.

Her father looked more dead than alive. She'd seen him after his other heart attack, pale and drawn – but this was something else entirely. His skin was ashen, and it was as if he'd aged ten years in the space of a few hours. Papi was an old man, now; he would never be anything else.

A thousand memories crowded into her mind: Her father clambering onto the rooftop to hang Halloween decorations – ghosts made of old sheets. Him dancing the salsa as he stirred the batter for another batch of cupcakes. Playing beanbag toss with toddler Justin on the back stoop. Running upstairs ten times a morning to try and get his daughters out of bed in time for breakfast.

Dad would survive this night, but those kinds of moments had ended, forever.

Daniel's hand tightened around hers, and she remembered another hospital room three years earlier. He'd been the one watching his father near death; she'd been the one offering comfort. It was weird to realize that Daniel could come through for her the same way she always came through for him … weirder still to realize that she'd wanted to be sure of exactly that. But that was only one thought among the myriad worries that surrounded her.

"Dad?" she ventured. Her father didn't stir. The machines around him blinked and beeped, more like something out of a scifi show than real life. Betty wanted to hate them, sterile and terrifying as they were, but she knew they were saving her dad's life.

"He'll come around before too long," Daniel said, obviously relying more on hope than fact. "You'll feel better after you can talk to him."

"Yeah. I will." Hope, not fact. She tried to hold onto that.

"And whatever you need over the next few days, weeks, whatever – you know we'll work it out at MODE."

"I do. Thanks."

The next few days, weeks, months … she'd still be at MODE.

She wouldn't be in London. All those happy dreams she'd indulged in at Hilda's wedding: That was all they would ever be. Dreams.

The impact was painful – not as painful as what was happening to Dad, but bad enough, separate, scorching and scoring the only parts of her life this night hadn't yet damaged. London was such a new dream for her, only a few days old, and already losing it felt like having something ripped out of her gut. She hadn't realized how badly she needed to escape her old life until it had folded around her, inescapable. She hadn't known how badly she needed something new until her familiar burdens sank down on her again.

_I shouldn't be so selfish_, Betty thought. _How can I even think about my career at a time like this? _ But she could. There was room in her heart for all the pain, every single bit of it.

She held back the first sob as long as she could, until her throat ached and her head pounded, but when it broke free, all the rest tumbled out, shaking her so hard she could barely breathe. Daniel's arms went around her at the moment she thought she might fall, and she buried her face against his chest.

"I'm so horrible," she gasped. "It's like – like I don't want to love him, because it hurts so bad, but I love him so much."

"It's not horrible. You're always here for him. For everyone."

"Selfish – I want him here for me – "

"Shhh." Daniel's embrace was so warm – like a blanket she could wrap around herself, a shield against harsh reality. Betty was dimly aware of his lips brushing against her forehead and her hair, but she thought nothing of it beyond a vague though deep gratitude that he was with her.

Within a few minutes, she'd sobbed herself to exhaustion – wrung out the last of her tears. As Betty slowed her breaths, trying to regain some sense of herself, Daniel finally spoke again: "You're the most unselfish person I've ever known."

"I doubt it."

"I know it," he insisted. "This is happening to you, too. He's your father. It's okay to feel loss when you've lost something. To feel pain when you've been hurt. Betty, don't you see – if you weren't so unselfish, you wouldn't feel guilty about being upset. There's no right or wrong way for you to feel about this, okay? Just … don't beat up on yourself about it." Daniel's lips curled into a half-smile. "I don't let people beat up on my friends."

"Okay. I hear you." Betty knew Daniel was saying all that without knowing everything she'd just lost – but she also knew he was right.

It was time to stop thinking about London for a while, though. Nothing mattered more, in this moment, than her love for her father. But she felt she understood love in a way she hadn't before.

She laid one hand on her father's shoulder, grateful that he was there to touch.

Wilhelmina's clock struck midnight just as she and Marc walked in. It felt later. "I swear to God, today lasted at least five years," she said as she stepped out of her Louboutins.

Marc swept the shoes up into their special lined cabinet in the hallway, movements smooth from long practice. "My blind date today was awful, and it was the least awful awful thing that happened. Being worse than my love life? That takes some doing."

_Did I give you permission to talk about your life?_ The words came to Wilhelmina's mouth – the sort of thing she always said to Marc – but this time, she didn't speak them. Instead, she said, "Why don't we see if Tyler left any of the booze in the house untouched?"

One bottle of champagne remained corked. Marc opened it smoothly and poured for them both. Neither of them spoke until they stood at the window that looked into her condominium building's courtyard. That was usually Wilhelmina's least favorite view – sometimes you saw pets there, or even children, making noise – but now she found herself noticing her neighbors' curtains, or the flowerpots on the sills, even a child's drawing posted a couple floors below.

Too bad so many of the curtains were tacky.

She'd wanted Tyler to turn on Claire … not to kill her. Wilhelmina Slater knew herself to be a ruthless woman, but she drew the line at out-and-out homicide. Even Claire Meade didn't deserve a bullet in the head. And Tyler had been no more than a pawn to Wilehlmina until she'd seen him crumple in tears from the shame of what he'd nearly done, or drunkenly pleading for a message to be sent to the little airheaded girl he adored.

When did she start caring about other people? And when did the Meade family start counting as "people" to her?

"You set Tyler up," Marc said. "Didn't you?"

"Pretended to be in AA, offered to be his sponsor, tricked Daniel into giving him alcohol – the whole nine yards." Wilhelmina sighed. "And for what?"

"A share of Meade, I assume. Or revenge. Or revenge plus Meade? They go together a lot."

Wilhelmina shrugged. "It all seems rather meaningless, now."

Marc hesitated, clearly unsure what to make of her new mood. Normally she liked his cowering; it was a sign that her authority remained unquestioned. Now she found herself wishing the one person she was closest to felt free to speak his mind with her.

And how did Marc St. James turn out to be the one person she was closest to?

Finally, he said, "It might be better to – to let it all go." Then he shrank back, as if anticipating a bitch-slap, which such a comment would certainly have earned him a few weeks ago.

Now, Wilhelmina just sighed. "I think you're right."

Wordlessly, Marc lifted his champagne glass to hers. They clinked together in a toast … though she still didn't know to what.

She supposed she'd have to find out.

Even from his place in the farthest corner of the room, Daniel could tell that Ignacio Suarez was trying to smile.

"Don't talk, okay?" Betty clasped his hand as Hilda stroked her father's hair. Bobby had his arms around Justin at the foot of Ignacio's hospital bed. Elena was busily studying the readouts on the machines clustered around him. "We're here. You're going to be okay. And we all love you so much."

Despite the tears in the room, everybody else was smiling too, or doing their best. The power of love, Daniel figured. He edged out, giving the Suarez family their time alone at last.

Leaving didn't change the powerful connection Daniel felt to Betty; to him, they still seemed to be tethered together. He'd felt Betty's pain as his own, earlier; now, her relief and happiness shone through him just as strongly.

Mr. Suarez wasn't out of the woods yet. If Elena's assessment of the situation was right, he might never really be totally healthy again. His regaining consciousness was only the beginning of a long journey for his whole family … of which Daniel now somehow seemed to be a part. At any rate, he was willing to walk that road with Betty as long as she needed him.

Daniel trudged to the waiting room, where Betty's heels still sat beneath one of the chairs. He picked them up and put them in his lap; he'd get them to her later.

And he should … see about having groceries delivered. Did Fresh Direct go to Queens? If not, he could arrange a special delivery, make sure there was plenty to eat in the house and fewer errands for the family to run.

Naturally he'd see to Betty's time off at MODE. That was given.

What else could he do for her? Daniel couldn't think of anything, and it frustrated him; if only this were a problem he could solve with money. He wanted so badly to fix it, to fix everything, so Betty could be happy again.

_Maybe it's enough just to love her_, he thought.

And there it was – the L word, the one he'd been trying so hard to deny earlier that he hadn't even fully realized what he was denying. Daniel had been attempting to hide from it, but it had found him, this one startling, inescapable truth: He was in love with Betty Suarez.

He put one hand out against the wall, attempting to steady himself. This rocked him as badly as the day's crises had, and it was almost as frightening. In love with Betty? The same Betty who'd seen him acting like a total fuck-up for most of the past four years? The one he had once forced to pose in pleather hot pants for a photo shoot lighting setup? She might have forgiven him for all that … but could she ever love him in return?

Impossible as it seemed, Daniel knew he'd have to find out.

_She doesn't know you love her yet. And this is definitely not the time to tell her. Mr. Suarez's near-fatal heart attack is NOT a dating opportunity. _

Then Daniel argued back at himself, _She doesn't know you love her as a woman. But she knows you love her, just as her, and right now ... that's all she needs. Right now, the most loving thing you can do is wait. _

He felt better, realizing that. But was he forgetting something?

Oh, right. The hospital bills. At least there his money could do some good.

… _due to my father's health crisis, I deeply regret to say that I can't accept the job at Dunne Publications at this time. I appreciate the extraordinary opportunity you've given me; I don't think anything else could have kept me from coming to London and joyfully accepting the job. _

_But if I only have a few months left with my father, I can't spend those months in London. I need to spend them here. _

_Please keep my resume on file. I hope we'll cross paths again someday. In the meantime, thank you again for the offer. _

Betty stared at the note to Lindsay Dunne for a few long seconds, then hit SEND.

Her throat tightened again, but she was all cried out for the day. Soon, she could finally rest; soon, this awful day would be over. Her body ached from head to toe … no, from head to ankle. Her feet, swaddled in the slippers Daniel had bought her at the hospital, were warm and comfortable. She'd have to thank him later. It helped, having just one tiny thing feel right.

As badly as she wanted to go to bed, she wanted to get the words out first. Betty resolutely turned back to the other window open on her laptop screen: the post she was still composing for her blog. With tired, aching fingers, she tapped out the final paragraphs:

_Not every dream comes true right away. Some of them have to wait a while. And if anything is worth that wait, it's love. _

_Bad movies and pop songs try to tell us that love sets you free, makes you powerful. I don't think that's always true. Love makes us vulnerable. Love weighs us down. _

_But that's because love is an anchor. It's heavy, and it holds us sometimes when we wish we could sail away. But it also keeps us steady in the storm. _

END

_Next time, in Ugly Betty Season Five: _

Betty Strikes Back!


	2. Betty Strikes Back, Part One

"**Betty Strikes Back" **

Betty's hand reached out and slapped snooze on the alarm clock. Just five minutes more …

Wait. How many times had she hit snooze?

She propped herself up on her elbows, stared at the clock, and said her first word of the day: "Crap."

The toaster's pop-up mechanism chose that morning to break, so the bread slices had become two blackened squares by the time she finally pried them loose. The soot rising into the air set off her apartment's smoke alarm, which continued its eardrum-piercing shrieks the entire time she finished getting ready. Finally Betty stood on her chair to mash the manual shutoff on the alarm – but the chair wobbled and sent her crashing to the floor.

"Oww!" She rolled onto her side and pulled her bruised legs up to her belly; nothing was broken, but that had hurt. Betty leaned her head tiredly against the floor, just in time for Mr. Fong downstairs to start pounding on his ceiling with his broomstick, right beneath her eardrum.

_It's okay_, she told herself later that morning, as she hurried out toward the closest subway stop. _You were at the hospital until late last night. You're just getting a slow start, that's all. Soon you'll get your groove back. _

Then she saw the MTA employee standing in front of the stop, holding a sign with the scrawled legend STATION CLOSED.

Betty groaned as she leaned against the closest lamppost. "Some mornings, there's not enough coffee in the world."

Another disappointed commuter gave her an odd look as he walked past.

Which was around about the time she realized the lamppost had its own sign: WET PAINT.

**oooooo**

"Sorry I'm late!" she cried as she stumbled into the MODE morning meeting. Between changing into clothes that weren't newly ruined with fresh green paint and catching the bus instead of the train to work, she'd gotten in nearly half an hour after she was supposed to.

Thank God Daniel was her boss. He simply gave her a quick, reassuring smile as he started calling the meeting to order. That was exactly the kind of thing that made the other staffers grumble that he played favorites …

Well, yes. He did. Betty sometimes tried to convince him to stop doing that, but this morning, she'd take what she could get.

"Look what the cat dragged in," Marc said, giving her a sidelong glance across the table. "Emphasis on dragged. Seriously, what was in that gutter?"

"I'm having a rough morning," Betty replied. "You wouldn't believe."

"Oh, I would," Fat Carol chimed in. "I read it in my horoscope this morning. Mercury's in retrograde. For every single sign of the zodiac. That's supposed to be impossible."

"Okay, let's get this started," Daniel said, before pausing. "For Pisces, too?"

Wilhelmina rolled her eyes. "Astrology, Daniel? Wasn't the Community of the Phoenix enough New Age mumbo-jumbo for you?"

_Ouch_, Betty thought. Wilhelmina's jabs were less frequent these days, but she still aimed below the belt.

Daniel hurriedly returned to the subject. "Obviously we need to discuss the September issue, but today we've got more pressing matters on the table. Namely, the impending consolidation of Meade Publications offices." He started a PowerPoint that his temp assistant must have done for him; it looked pretty good. Betty felt relieved that at least one of her former responsibilities was being taken care of, competently, by someone else. "MODE, as the flagship publication, remains in the same place. Partly because I keep my stuff here. Anyway. We're going to be sharing accounting and printing staffs with multiple publications from here on, which is going to require tighter time management and greater accountability across the board. Also, we'll be partitioning the in-house photo studio for simultaneous use by at least three magazines – from now on, we have to make room for HUDSON and MYW."

"MYW?" Betty wrinkled her nose. "Are they coming back here?"

Daniel's best effort at appearing blasé wasn't totally convincing, but she had to admit he gave it his best. "With THE CUP folding, we had the office space available in this building, and the separate MYW offices are a luxury we need to take off the balance sheet."

Betty had only realized MYW was leaving when, a couple weeks after its debut issue, Ruthie had ridden down in the elevator with her, holding a big cardboard box with her own good-luck bunny inside. Ruthie had refused to speak to "the enemy," which was kind of sad, but if it had to be Team Sofia vs. Team Daniel, Betty was content to remain on Team Daniel. "Where did they go, anyway?"

"New Jersey," Daniel said with a certain satisfactionsu8 . "Just off the Turnpike. Dad's idea."

Wicked grins broke out throughout the meeting room, and Betty couldn't resist one of her own. Yes, she was tired, she was worried about her father, she still felt like her whole life was in the Dumpster … but it was sweet to think of Sofia Reyes' flabbergasted face when Bradford Meade had told her to move her swanky magazine offices to _Jersey._

"Your father was a master of revenge," Wilhelmina said to Daniel, her former prickliness faded into genuine admiration. "A consummate artist. I always appreciated that about him."

Marc nodded as he whispered to Wilhelmina, at the edge of what Betty could hear: "It really is a shame you two never made that baby. It would have been a tiny, drooling Machiavelli."

"Thanks, Wilhelmina. I'm sure that would've meant a lot to him." Was Daniel joking or not? Betty wasn't sure; she thought Daniel wasn't either. "Anyway, they're coming back. We have to make room. So, affected departments, get a game plan together by Wednesday morning."

When the meeting broke up, Betty sought Daniel out – a task made easier because he was seeking her too. "Betty, hey. How's your dad?"

"A little better." _ A little_ being the important part: Papi was still so weak that it hurt her heart just to look at him. But she wanted to focus on the bright side. That was the only way to keep going. "He's talking a lot more now. Even griped about the hospital food last night. He might get to come home next week, if he keeps improving."

"That's great!" Daniel squeezed her shoulder, then took his hand away awfully quickly. She wondered if something on her dress had pricked his hand. A bit of leftover price tag, maybe? But surely Marc would have spotted it, and the ridicule would have begun. "You know you can have more time off, if you need it."

"I took three days already," Betty said. "I'll save the rest for – just in case, you know?" She couldn't think about all the terrifying possibilities_ just in case_ stood for. So, as they walked through the Tube, she changed the subject. "So, Sofia's coming back to the building."

"It was nearly four years ago." Daniel spoke so quickly that Betty could tell he'd rehearsed this, probably by talking to himself in the mirror. He did that sometimes to buck himself up. "I'm over it. I'm sure she'd rather not bring it up. So I don't intend to."

Betty gave him a sidelong look. "Are you planning on taking the stairs instead of the elevator again?"

Daniel opened his mouth, then closed it, before trying, "I _have_ put on a couple pounds this year…"

"Don't you dare! This is your building, Daniel. Literally. Your name is on it. You run the business that employs Sofia Reyes, and you can send her packing the minute you want to."

"Actually, I can't." They paused in front of the receptionist's desk; Amanda's replacement, no more vigilant than Amanda had been, was too busy leafing through a copy of US WEEKLY to pay them any attention. "These days, any print magazine that makes money is invaluable. MYW is one of the pubs that keeps Meade Publications in the black, and Sofia's a big part of the reason why. I can't afford to forget that." Daniel folded his arms in front of him. "Doesn't mean I have to like it."

Betty sighed. She wasn't looking forward to running into Sofia either. Learning that her one-time idol had used and manipulated her, all to hurt and humiliate the guy who had turned into her best friend … it somehow made her even angrier now than it had back then. Maybe _she _would take the stairs. "Hang in there, okay? You're worth ten Sofias, and we both know it."

"Hardly." But Daniel's face lit up at the praise, becoming almost boyish. He was unbelievably cute when he did that. Too bad he knew it.

"And hey, maybe you'll get lucky and avoid her for the first few weeks or so, until it's not weird anymore."

"That would help, but I doubt I'll get that lucky. Mercury's in retrograde, remember?" He grabbed some phone messages from the reception desk and headed toward his office, calling over his shoulder, "Even for Pisces!"

Even in the middle of a crappy morning, that joke was enough to make Betty smile.

**oooooo**

On the other side of MODE's offices, Wilhelmina Slater wasn't smiling. At all.

"You seem … distracted," Marc said as he dropped off a skinny latte for her; though this was no longer his job, she noticed he'd kept up little tasks like this, perhaps as bribes. She preferred to think of them as tribute. "That, or I went too heavy on the injections this time."

"I'm bored, Marc." She leaned back in her chair, studying the perfection of her white-on-white office and finding it lacking for the first time ever. Redecorating would at least be something to do. "I always felt overworked here at MODE. But now I'm learning … when you take the skullduggery out of this job, it really frees up a lot of time. At my skill level, actually being creative director only uses about four hours a day."

"Well, then, we need to get you plotting again." Marc sat in one of the chairs, crossing his legs as he tapped his fingers against his own latte. "Surely there's _someone_ out there who deserves a heapin' helpin' of Slater-style vengeance."

"The Meades are circus clowns, but we've declared a permanent truce," Wilhelmina sighed. "My sister's condition is improving. My daughter remains in an unknown location. Anna Wintour's new bodyguards are former Mossad agents. So they're all beyond my reach or my desire for revenge. Truly, there are no worlds left to conquer."

Marc considered that before venturing, "You know, I've always wondered what would happen if you used your powers for good. Like, I believe you could actually take down Mugabe. Kim Jong Il, maybe? Seriously, I think all you need to make it happen is a secret lair and maybe a jetpack."

"You've been watching X-Men movies on your laptop again, haven't you?"

He shrugged, an admission. "Hugh Jackman in leather. It's a weakness."

Wilhelmina waved him off. "Shoo. If I come up with any plans for world domination – or anything else to do this afternoon – I'll let you know."

"Your number-one henchman is ready and waiting!" Marc called cheerily as he walked out the door.

She put her chin in her hand and drummed her perfectly manicured nails on the desk. Perhaps she could get a gel treatment for her hands at lunch. That would kill another … 45 minutes.

Finally, in frustration, Wilhelmina picked up the remote and turned on her TV. As ever, it was tuned to Fashion TV; the first image she saw was Suzuki St. Pierre's grinning face. "Cover Girls Revisited!" An image of the debut issue of MYW rotated into focus behind him. "Word on the street is that foxy feminist avenger Sofia Reyes is on her way back into New York and the Meade Publications offices … even though her famous dump-ee, Manwhore Hall of Fame 2010 nominee Daniel Meade, is now head of the company! That should make for some tense times around the water cooler!"

Since she would already be watching that particular melodrama play out before her eyes whether she wanted it or not, Wilhelmina began clicking through her other channels … something she'd never done before. Good God, was this what she'd come to? Surfing around for reality shows? Next thing you knew, she'd take up crafts, or start to cook, or something else utterly demented.

"…next, on 'Septuplet Moms on Meth' …" Click.

"Well, now, Opie, folks can be funny sometimes." Click.

"We're going to add an 'art element' to this wall by framing some leaves of the dead plants they _already have _on their back porch!" Click.

"The rioting broke out just around dawn, which prison officials say suggests a coordinated protest …"

Wilhelmina began to press on the channel arrow of her remote in the split second before she saw a face in the prison crowd. A face she would have known anywhere –

Click.

"Now, fold in that delicious Gruyere, smooth and even strokes…"

Quickly she flicked back to the news channel, but while they continued to show scenes of the prison from the air, there were no more close-ups. And she couldn't rewind past the point where she'd changed the channel.

Hastily, Wilhelmina scribbled down the name of the prison where the riot was taking place. If she had that information, then it wouldn't be hard to find out if she'd really seen the person she thought she'd seen.

Whether she'd found Connor Owens again at last.

**oooooo**

How to accessorize a jetpack? It was an interesting question, Marc mused. He imagined Wilhelmina in a sort of skin-tight white catsuit – that was a gimmie – but how did you throw together the rest of the outfit? Perhaps a couple of Lucite bangle bracelets. The earrings couldn't dangle, because they might catch in the jetpack's straps, but diamond studs would work nicely. Or would emeralds have that Kryptonite flair? Add a silver mesh scarf knotted around the throat, thigh-high boots: superhero perfection.

As he walked into the photo studio, he tried to bring his thoughts around to work-related matters again. But his mind first sprang to the idea of a superhero-themed photo spread. Couldn't they do something like that the next time they were featuring a female celeb who had a movie like that coming out? They could show golden bracelets fit for Wonder Woman. Figure out what Supergirl was wearing for modesty under that skirt. (Seriously, a skirt for a girl who can fly? How Kardashian could you get?) Hugh Jackman in leather. It had potential. Marc resolved to put that in his ideas file for later.

"Okay, people!" He called out. "What's the story?"

"The HUDSON guys are already here," one assistant grumbled. "They just, like, commandeered almost the whole east side of the studio."

"Well, as long as they didn't claim more than one-third, I guess it doesn't matter," Marc said.

"The east side is where the bathrooms are."

"Oh, we are _so_ claiming that space." Marc swept past her. "Excuse me. I'll see to this."

He walked toward the photo shoot; all he had to do was follow the beat of the music and the whirr of the wind machines. They seemed to be doing some sort of a post-apocalyptic thing, clothes artfully mussed, faux wreckage all around the delicious male models. Nicely done, really, but an artful setup did not give them the right to claim potty supremacy.

"Hello there!" he called as he walked up to the photographer – who then turned around.

And was Cliff St. Paul.

"Hello there," Cliff said. His face showed no sign of surprise or dismay; obviously he'd had a chance to brace himself for this possibility. Marc, who hadn't, figured he probably looked like a bad emoticon. "The space was empty this morning, so we went ahead and set up. That's okay, isn't it?"

"For today," Marc managed to say. "So. This is awkward."

Cliff shrugged. "Doesn't have to be. I mean – we're professionals. We're doing our jobs. Simple enough, right?"

"Right. Of course." _He's lost all the weight. All of it. And his hair – it's perfect – it's like he took lessons from Betty! Is there some sort of underground fashion camp for the unkempt?_ "We'll – ah – we'll work out permanent places for the photo setups this afternoon."

"I'm just a freelancer." Still maddeningly calm, even blasé, Cliff returned to his work. "I'll let you know who to talk to at HUDSON."

"Sure," Marc said to Cliff's back. "Great."

Just like that, a guy who always used to make him feel like a million dollars had just made him feel invisible.

**oooooo**

_Headed out_, Daniel texted Betty. _Got time to grab a coffee after? _

His answer came swiftly. _I shouldn't admit this to my boss, but I'm already in the lobby. The trip out to the hospital takes forever. Lunch tomorrow? _

_Sure thing. _

He shouldn't have felt so disappointed. Of course Betty would spend every extra second with her sick father. But she had looked so worn-out and beaten-down this morning; she needed a break.

And, rather selfishly, he wanted her to spend that break with him. Daniel knew he needed to be patient, to respect what Betty was going through, but it was so hard. You couldn't just figure out you were in love with your best friend and then not do anything about it for days on end – not without making yourself a little bit crazy.

Well, he had a lunch date, at least. Even if he couldn't start sounding her out about a relationship yet, he could make sure she had a little fun, and a really good meal.

As he waited for the elevator, Daniel typed out, _Hey, do you want to try Café Un Deux Trois? My treat. _

_Isn't that place fancy? _

_Not stuffy fancy_, he texted, stepping into the elevator without looking up from his iPhone. _Delicious fancy. _

_I like the sound of delicious fancy. You're on. OK, subway now. See you 2morrow!_

As Daniel smiled down at Betty's message, he heard a voice say, "I have to admit – you know how to play it cool."

Slowly he lifted his head to see Sofia Reyes, in the flesh, for the first time since their final farewell in the TV studio three and a half years ago.

She looked good. Great, even. Dammit. Red pencil skirt, black top cut low enough to show off her assets without being unprofessional, thick shining hair flowing halfway down her back. Daniel, meanwhile, was uncomfortably aware that he'd ditched his tie before leaving the office and was still growing out his weird haircut.

_Keep it professional_, he told himself. "Settling in?"

"It's quite a transition … after New Jersey." Sofia's smile was rueful. "But yes, we're settling in quite well."

"Fine."

As far as Daniel was concerned, that was all they had to say to each other, on this elevator ride or any other. Sofia, however, kept looking in his direction; it was creepy how he could feel her eyes on him.

Creepier still to remember that he'd loved her – or loved someone he thought she was. Their relationship might have been fake, but the love he'd felt had been absolutely real. It was as if Sofia was impersonating the real woman he'd cared for so passionately, though he knew by now that woman didn't really exist. Standing here with her now awakened a strange sensation within him, repulsed and yet fascinated. Like how he would feel if somebody sent a Molly-fembot to assassinate him. Oh, great, now he had _that _mental image in his head too.

"Listen," Sofia said. "I know it's none of my business, but there's something I wanted to ask you."

"Go ahead." What did it matter? Better to get it over with than to deny her that small request, which would show her how much she could still get under his skin.

"Do you know how Betty's doing?"

Daniel looked back at her, startled, but only for the first moment. Sofia had genuinely liked Betty. Of course she'd wonder. But he didn't want to talk about Betty's troubles, like Mr. Suarez's illness; that was too personal to share with somebody neither of them liked. So he concentrated on the positive. "She's … like this force of nature, you know? Lights up the whole office. I think she's writing more these days, too. Oh, her blog just won an award." A Bloggy? A Bloopy? He couldn't remember. Better to leave it vague.

A little frown line appeared between Sofia's eyebrows. "You mean, Betty's still working for you at MODE?"

"Well, yeah. She's not my assistant anymore, though." He liked bragging on Betty. "She's an assistant editor now. Has been for almost a year."

"So she was your assistant for _three years_."

The judgment was right there – not explicit, but lying out there, like bait on a hook, waiting for Daniel to take it. He attempted to resist. "Yes. Four minus one is three."

"Well." Sofia shrugged. "That surprises me."

The bait dangled just overhead, so tempting, so near. He stared resolutely at the elevator doors, but couldn't stop himself from saying, "Betty's very loyal."

"She'd have to be."

Daniel bit. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means, I'm surprised that you kept someone as talented as Betty in such an insignificant job for three years. And I'm surprised Betty stayed with someone who treated her the way you did."

"Excuse me?"

"Making her pick you up when you were drunk so you could vomit all over her house?" Oh, damn, he had told Sofia about that, hadn't he? "Or making her sit outside on the stoop late at night to make sure your girlfriends didn't run into each other?"

He hadn't told Sofia that. Which meant Betty had told her. He didn't blame Betty – at the time, she'd thought Sofia was a friend, and him doing that … it really had sucked.

Shit, he was the worst boss ever. Yeah, he'd gotten better, but he still screwed up all the time. Even when she won her Bloopy, he'd acted like an ass.

Was he kidding himself to think that Betty would ever want to go out with him after all that? At the moment, he felt like it was impossible. Like he was the world's biggest fool for even believing that could ever happen.

But he said only, "Water under the bridge. Besides – you should be glad Betty's showed me how to let bygones be bygones."

Sofia raised her eyebrows. "Touche, Daniel." He had the vague sense he'd just won a point.

As they reached the lobby, he felt like at least he could end this on a high note. So Daniel walked confidently out of the opening elevator doors – and ran straight into an assistant carrying a full tray of coffees, which splashed all over him. Sofia glided past the mess without a word.

"I'm sorry!" the assistant chirped, as she desperately tried to mop him down with a paper napkin.

"It's okay," Daniel said. Some coffee dripped from the tip of his nose. "Don't worry about it."

_Mercury_, he thought. _Retrograde._

**oooooo**

Betty lifted the cover off her father's hospital tray and tried to act enthusiastic. "Check it out! We have – a kind of chicken brothy thing! Plus Jell-O. Green Jell-O. Everyone knows the green kind is the best."

"I'm – so sick – of Jell-O." Her father tried to smile, to turn it into a joke, but she knew he was thinking of the meals he would fix at home, the kind of stuff he was never supposed to eat again: burritos, cheeseburgers, deep-dish pizza. "But hey. At least – it's green."

"Take it easy, Papi." Hilda put one hand out as Dad tried to ease himself into a higher sitting position. "Don't strain yourself."

"Hilda, I'm just trying to – lift a spoon. If I can't do that – you can go ahead – and put me on the cart."

"Dad! Don't even joke about that!" Hilda's face looked almost comically dismayed, both at her father's dark humor and the fact that she'd just shouted at him.

Meanwhile, Elena was pacing at the door. "Twenty minutes. They said he'd get his medication in twenty minutes. And where are they?"

Worried, Betty checked the time on her phone, then frowned. "It's only been eighteen minutes."

"But he has to swallow it! That takes time!" Elena had designated herself SuperNurse for the duration of Dad's hospital stay, which so far mostly involved terrorizing the hospital staff. At least it seemed to amuse Dad.

The nurse walked in with the medication, as if on cue; Elena glared at her but said nothing. While the nurse checked in with her father, Betty drew Hilda into the hallway. "Listen," she said. This hurt even to say out loud – even to think about – but she knew her duty. "I've been thinking. About – about moving back home to help out."

Unexpectedly, Hilda said, "You don't have to do that. Bobby, Justin and I had a long talk. We're gonna live in the house together instead of looking for our own place, at least for the time being. Easier that way."

"But I can still help more if I'm there – "

"Well, sure. I figure you can come stay on the weekends, so Bobby and I can get a little newlywed time at his place. You and me, it'll be like we're taking shifts, you know?" Hilda gave her an uneven smile. "Elena's going to try to get a leave of absence to stay out here for a few weeks too, so that's one more person who would be in the house. We've only got room for so many. Besides, you and me, we fight enough over the bathroom as it is. Add Bobby in the mix? Seriously, his hair is, like, half an inch long, but you would not believe how long it takes that man to get ready in the morning."

Betty had to laugh. "Okay. I'll take weekends."

Her whole way home after visiting hours ended, however, Betty kept turning that conversation over and over in her mind. Though Betty knew Hilda was trying to be fair and reasonable, instead of lashing out the way she had after their father's first heart attack, the idea of spending only her weekends in Queens seemed even worse than the idea of giving up her Manhattan apartment again. Instead of being wholly on her own or wholly a part of her family, she would be torn in two. Spending twice the amount of time on the subway. Half her clothes in one place, half in another. It wasn't that bad, but even that one small layer of stress, added onto everything else, was enough to make her want to tear out her hair.

As she trudged up the subway steps and headed onto her street, lost in thought, she wondered whether Daniel would let her come in a little later on Monday mornings – that was stupid, of course he would, but she got in on time when she lived in Queens, so she could do it again.

So preoccupied, she saw the shape moving toward her only in time to think, with the stupidity of shock, _Is he going to run into me? _

The man's fist hit her jaw, not hard enough to knock her down, but hard enough to hurt like hell. Betty staggered back, tasting blood from where she'd bitten her tongue, but he was grabbing at the strap of her purse, high on her shoulder. She tried to shove him away, but he shoved her harder, ripping the purse away from her as she fell to the sidewalk. The purse and something else too – something was breaking –

_My necklace! _ Betty clutched at her throat even as the guy ran away, but beads were scattering everywhere.

Just like that, he was gone. Only then did Betty realize she should have screamed for help, but it was too late. Her hip and knee burned from the tumble she'd taken onto the pavement, and her arm ached from having the purse ripped away. At the moment, though, she could only think about her precious necklace, the last and best gift her mother had ever given her.

On her hands and knees, Betty pawed around the sidewalk, looking for the B. If she had the B, then she could get another string of beads to hang it on. She wouldn't lose everything, not if she could just find that.

Her finger found a shape – a tiny shard of the B. It had shattered. And she realized most of it had fallen down the gutter grate, which meant it was gone forever.

Betty remained on her hands and knees, staring down the grate, for what seemed like a very long time.

**oooooo**

Daniel ran out of his apartment building despite the spring rain, hailed the first available taxi he saw and said the words you should never, ever say to a New York cabbie unless you mean business: "Step on it."

As the cab accelerated to approximately Warp Five, Daniel braced himself and tried to control his temper. He was just so fucking mad at whoever this was who had hurt Betty just when she needed to catch a break. Already he'd had about twelve fantasies of somehow running into Betty just as she got off the subway, in time to see the mugger and heroically stop him – in these fantasies he had learned jujitsu, somehow, and also maybe they were in the Matrix, because he could kick the guy in the face without pulling every muscle he had.

But those were daydreams. Betty had needed an ass-kicker by her side about twenty minutes ago. Now she needed a friend.

And maybe she needed something else, besides –

When he made it to her apartment, and she opened the door, he held out his offering. "They didn't have chili or cheese, but I figured some potatoes were better than no potatoes."

Betty gave him a watery smile as she took the packet of fries from his hand. "Thanks."

Daniel stepped inside and folded her in a one-armed hug – the only way to do it while she held the fries – but she shrank back. "Am I wet? It's raining out." Then his brain belatedly turned on, and he could have cursed himself. "Oh. Betty, I'm sorry. You're probably – you don't want to be touched after somebody hit you."

"It's okay if you touch me," Betty said. "But it hurts."

Sure enough, as she walked toward the sofa, her left foot limped slightly, and when Daniel sat by her side, he saw the reddish-purple bruise forming at her jawline. "Jesus, Betty. Are you sure you don't need to go to the doctor?"

"I've spent enough time in hospitals for today." Her voice was so small, so shaky – nothing like herself. She seemed almost meek as she clutched her fries, not actually eating them. "And I'm okay. Just sore."

"Did you call the cops?"

"They took a statement over the phone. But they basically said that they couldn't do much unless the guy tried to use my credit cards. I already called and canceled them all, so, too bad, jerk." Betty attempted to smile, such a poor effort that it made his heart ache to see it. "And my cell phone and keys were in my jacket pocket. So all he got was my Metrocard, thirty bucks and a state ID that looks nothing like him. Well, he also got the purse, but it was a knockoff."

"Still, I can't believe that." He admitted, "The whole way over here, I kept wishing I knew martial arts so I could, like, magically find this guy and kick his ass."

Betty's mouth twitched, but she was still a long way from a real smile. "I'm fine. Really. I shouldn't even have called you. But I felt weird being alone, and Amanda and Marc seem to be out tonight, so – it was stupid."

"Hey." Daniel ventured a hand on her right shoulder, which seemed to be the less sore one. "It's not stupid for you to call me. Ever. If you need me, I want to be here."

"But you ran all the way over here, and it's not like there's anything you can do."

"Well, one time I made you come all the way from Queens to advise me on the right shirt to wear, so, you know, I'm still digging my way out of that one." That did make her smile a little, but he almost wished he hadn't reminded her of yet another idiotic thing he'd done when they were first working together. "And I was able to bring you fries. See? I'm totally useful. Multi-purpose. I'm the Swiss Army knife of friends."

"Okay, okay." Although Betty was a long way from cheered up, she did start munching on a fry. He figured that was a good sign.

Lightning cracked outside, and Betty jumped – not merely startled, but actually scared. Daniel said, "Hey. It's all right."

"I know that. I do. I just – I'm okay," she insisted. She put one hand to her chest, as if to steady herself. That drew Daniel's attention to the odd red marks on her throat – and then he realized what she'd been wearing this morning that she didn't have anymore.

"Oh, no. Your B necklace. Did it – do you – " His voice trailed off as he saw Betty's lower lip start to tremble. "Not the necklace. Not that." That was her single most prized possession, gone. Jesus Christ, couldn't Betty catch one single break? Once again, Daniel felt that new pull between them – that sense that her pain was his pain, that he had not choice but to feel what she felt. That necklace was like a part of her. Some jerk had ripped it away, for the sake of thirty bucks and a Metrocard.

Betty bit her lip, took a deep breath, then said, "I can't think about it right now. All right?"

"All right."

"I'm just … tired. I'm going to go to bed." Daniel was on the verge of rising to excuse himself when she added, almost casually, "I don't guess – would you mind crashing on the sofa? Just for tonight."

She was spooked, he realized. She didn't want to admit it; she wanted to hang on to what little dignity the thief had left her. So he answered as off-handedly as he could. "Yeah, sure. Swiss Army knife of friends, remember?"

"You're the best." Betty smiled at him unevenly before walking toward her bedroom space, helping herself to a fry as she went.

Turning in for the night was swift and not too awkward; Betty got ready for bed in her bathroom, and after a spirited debate with himself, Daniel decided to leave his jeans on. Sure, Betty had seen him in his boxers before – plenty of times – but it felt different now. She got into bed and let him turn out the lights.

Just as he snapped off the final lamp, Daniel glanced over at her bed; lightning flashed, briefly illuminating just the outline of her body beneath the blankets. Her day had apparently been so exhausting that she was already asleep, dark hair streaming behind her on the pillow. She lay on her side, curled into a comma. The lightning flickered again, teasing him with one more moment of her in her soft pink pajamas, before he was again in the dark, listening to distant thunder.

The image stayed with him as he settled onto the sofa, pulling an old afghan over himself. Betty, so vulnerable, so close, so in need of protection and care and comfort.

Daniel closed his eyes. The pictures in his mind twisted and swirled, caught in the misty Neverland between fantasy and dream.

"_Daniel – hold me." _

_Needing comfort. Needing him, as badly as he needed her. _

_His arms sliding around her. Spooning next to her, his belly to her back. Nuzzling the nape of her neck. Betty turning toward him, their eyes meeting in one burst of lightning, before he brought his lips to hers. Kissing every bruise on her body, making them go away. Their breaths coming faster. Her bare skin against his. Drawing her thigh over his hip, asking permission with his touch, her smile a perfect and unmistakable yes –_

Daniel startled awake again, and he had to take a few deep breaths before he could ease himself back down. He'd never dreamed of Betty like that before – never fantasized about her, not even since his realization the night of the wedding. This was the first time.

But he knew it wouldn't be the last.

The booming thunder outside seemed like a text message from God: _Could you stop being a horndog while your friend is in trouble? _ If God would say horndog.

It took him a long time to get back to sleep.

**oooooo**

He awoke again to the sound of Betty's alarm clock – damn, she got up early. The sun was hardly up. Daniel pushed himself into a seated position, rubbing his hair, as the buzzing stopped.

"Hey," he said. "You okay?" Then Daniel saw her.

She was already on her feet, floral pajamas all rumpled. Her cheeks were flushed pink, and her hair was almost wild. The gleam in her eyes was equal parts anger and enthusiasm, and for one bewildered second, Daniel was afraid he'd talked in his sleep.

"I'm okay. I'm better than I've been in a long time. And you know why?" Betty gave him a fierce smile. "Because this is the day I stop letting life beat me down. Today is the day I start striking back."

_continued tomorrow - _


	3. Betty Strikes Back, Part Two

"Sorry, baby, I can't break a twenty," the guy at the coffee cart said to Betty, for about the eight hundredth time.

For the first time, she didn't start scrambling through her purse to put together the correct price in change. Instead, Betty fixed him in her hardest stare. "I doubt that. You've been taking coffee orders since five a.m. All those people have paid you two dollars each. If you refused to break a twenty for any of them – like you always do for me – then you should have a few hundred singles by now. Which means you can give me eighteen singles."

"No can do."

"Fine," Betty said. "I'll go upstairs and tell my boss that we really should put that Starbucks in our lobby that he's been thinking about. Which means I'll never have to come here again. Neither will anybody else in my building. The one with dozens of stories and thousands of workers. Yes, you're cheaper than Starbucks, but they're lazy, and they don't like to mess up their hair on windy days, or rainy days. On any days, really."

The coffee guy looked more dubious than cowed, but it beat the flat disrespect he dished out most days. "You can't get your boss to do that."

"I got his mom acquitted of a murder charge. Believe me, if all I ask him for is a Starbucks kiosk? I'll get it."

She got her eighteen singles, though in the end Betty wasn't sure whether she'd really won or if instead the coffee guy thought she was crazy. It didn't matter, though – after four years, she'd finally forced that man to make change!

As Betty strode through the lobby, she felt only the slightest twinge from her sore shoulder, and it didn't come close to damaging the electric thrill she felt. She'd awoken with the rock-solid conviction that, from now on, any obstacle that got in her face – whether it was the MTA, a mugger or even an obnoxious coffee vendor – well, they were going to get the Suarez smackdown.

She'd didn't know exactly what a Suarez smackdown was, but she liked the sound of it and was willing to find out.

_I look nice today_, she thought, and felt a flare of pleasure in the knowledge that it was true – not by her former, "if you feel good it in it, it must be flattering!" standards but by actual MODE standards. Mustard-colored skirt, deep purple top, black belt, burgundy shoes. She'd put her cell phone, keys, a lipstick and the eighteen singles in a black patent clutch purse she'd swiped out of the swag pile but never gotten around to using before. It was a look the magazine would have featured. In color. And yet it was still entirely, wholly her.

Even her bruises were masked by concealer, applied just the way the December '09 issue had suggested. Nobody would be able to tell what had happened to her. Betty preferred it that way.

_That's right. I've mastered MODE. This big, splashy fashion magazine tried to beat me down, and instead, I've learned everything it had to teach me. What's next? _

At her desk, she multitasked furiously all morning. 400 words on colored tights for fall? Done! A phone call to Hilda to check on anything that needed doing at the house? Made! Wilhelmina wanted pitches for a photo feature on shoes? Brainstorming now! What was it Daniel had said last night – something about martial arts? Betty decided that Tae Kwon Do sounded promising, found a studio not far from her apartment, and signed herself up for an introductory lesson. The next mugger who crossed her path would regret it.

And that dating profile she'd been working on for – the one that was half a joke, with all these audacious, flirtatious lines she would never have dreamed of really using, and that cell phone picture that showed off her cleavage – Betty pulled it up, took a deep breath, and hit Publish. She even activated the "speed dating" feature, which would let somebody get in touch if they wanted to see her as early as tonight.

Which was crazy. But striking back meant taking chances.

When she had a brief breather, not long before lunchtime, Betty opened another file that had been languishing lately: Her updated resume.

She'd sent it to Lindsay Dunne before meeting with him about the original, part-time gig. It had been good enough, combined with their meetings, to win her an editor-in-chief job.

What else might it do for her?

Betty knew a few places she could send it – publications here in New York. No, none of them were looking for a new editor, and her lost London still shone too brightly in her memories. But they were all places she'd love to work. They might want people at her current level or maybe higher. And they'd offer her the fresh start she'd so desperately wanted, but right here in town, where she could still help care for Papi.

_Yes_, Betty thought. _I can do this. I feel like I could do anything. _

She began composing the e-mail, drawing out cards from her Rolodex to fill in the addresses she needed – all contacts she'd cultivated carefully over the years –

Her phone chimed, showing her a text from Daniel. _Ready for lunch? _

Café Un Deux Trois. Delicious fancy.

Betty hesitated, remembering how she'd realized at the wedding that the hardest part of going to London would be telling Daniel goodbye. How he'd stayed with her that whole terrible night of Papi's heart attack. The way he'd known, without having to be told, how much it had hurt her to lose her necklace. That was the only time she'd come close to crying, after the mugging – when she'd seen that he already knew what was in her heart. Why did that moment touch her more than any other memory of their long friendship?

She sent the resume and the text of the letter to her personal email address, so she could check it at home. That was all stuff she could think about later.

Now, she replied to Daniel: _Let's go._

**oooooo**

"What do you mean, the Freedom of Information Act doesn't extend to inmates' names?" Wilhelmina stared at her phone as if it were personally responsible for this. "Then what good is it?"

In her doorway, Marc appeared. He made a vague swirly gesture with his hand; years of assistant bonding, plus a dash of Stockholm Syndrome, had created a certain telepathy between them that allowed her to read this perfectly as, _Should I come back later, or will I end up hearing all about it anyway, which makes my staying now useful as well as vicariously enjoyable? _

She tapped the desk, which in the same language meant: _Park it right here, mister._ Marc scurried to his usual chair.

The man on the other end of the line was patently useless. She snapped, "Do I seem like someone who would be planning a jailbreak?" When Marc shot her a look, she sent one back that meant, _Yes, but he doesn't know that._ "Fine. You've made your point. Please go back to withering away under fluorescent lighting like the do-nothing bureaucrat you are." She slammed the receiver down and sank back into her chair. "Where's this so-called 'big government' when you need it?"

"Shameful," Marc said. "Disgraceful. You'd think they'd have a little website set up with all their photos and names – sort of like an eHarmony to match up the incarcerated and the menopausal Pentecostal women who want to love them."

Wilhelmina arched an eyebrow. "Dudecruise isn't working out for you any longer?"

It was a joke, no more, but for some reason Marc took it hard. He seemed to wither a bit as he sat there, going weak and pale like a supermodel on day eight of nothing but pomegranate juice and Virginia Slims.

She folded her arms, glad she was wearing her gray suit with the metallic weave; it made her extra forceful. That would be necessary to convince Marc she actually wanted to hear about his life. "Romantic troubles abound, I take it."

"Let's just say that I think Fat Carol was right about the stars turning against us." As if that would be enough to satisfy her. Wilhelmina fixed Marc with her most piercing stare for the 1.3 seconds it took him to break. "Okay. We're sharing photo space with HUDSON now, which means I'm down there all the time – and it turns out they've got Cliff on retainer. I hadn't seen him in forever, and now I'm going to be seeing him all the time."

"Cliff. He was your boyfriend for some time there – the sort of furry one, wasn't he?"

"You should see him now. Total 'After' picture." Marc put the page proofs on her desk, but without any of his usual flair – he was like a week-old tulip wilting in its vase.

Quietly, Wilhelmina said, "If you want to hand off your supervisory duties for a week or so – to get used to it – you know that would be fine."

Marc gave her the half-thankful, half-wary look that was his usual response to her occasional kindnesses. "Thanks, but – I need to brave it out, you know? It won't get easier if I wait."

The one day she'd waited for news about Connor had more than reminded her how grating delays could be. "I see your point."

If she didn't want to wait longer to learn more about Connor – she'd have to do more than get fierce.

She'd have to humble herself.

Was he worth it?

**oooooo**

Daniel could only stare at Betty across the table. "Tae Kwon Do?"

"I can't wait." She sipped the last of her water with lemon, eyes focused more on the street outside – and whatever distant future she'd glimpsed for herself – than on him. "I'm not taking any more of this lying down, you know? I need to protect myself."

So much for his dreams of protecting her. Which was stupid, Daniel knew – he wasn't enough of an ass to wish that things would keep going wrong for Betty just so that he could keep proving himself useful.

Maybe he liked that image of holding her in her bed a little too much …

"And I've got a fantastic idea to run by Wilhelmina for the shoes feature. I was thinking, it's all a dog's POV."

"A dog?" Daniel tried to envision it as he quickly signed the check the waiter had brought for him. "Like, one of the cute little lapdogs people carry around these days. Jeweled collars and Chanel coats, that kind of thing?"

Betty brightened. "Exactly. Maybe several of them so we can color-coordinate with each pair of shoes – and I can't believe I'm talking about color-coordinating dogs. But, see, you can show a fancy pair of heels on a woman sitting at a fancy dinner table, sneaking the dog a bit of food. Or a dog lying at someone's feet, relaxing, next to more casual flats. Even a puppy trying to chew on a pair, if we can figure out a way to shoot that without damaging the shoe."

It was coming to him now. "And you can show a dog being walked on a rhinestone leash. Wrapped around the woman's legs, so you get a good look at the shoes."

"You're seeing it, right?"

"Yeah, definitely." It was original, witty, colorful, and totally focused on the footwear: Just about perfect. The dogs would be slightly difficult to shoot, but that would probably be a good way to make the images feel more organic and spontaneous. "Betty, that's terrific."

"Do you think Wilhelmina will go for it too?"

"She'd be crazy not to. Which I guess means it's fifty-fifty. But I'm going to tell her I like it."

"Yes!" Betty did a little fist-pump of victory, which made him chuckle.

An idea came to him then, either incredibly great or incredibly stupid. He couldn't tell yet. Definitely incredible, though. He'd have to consider. For now, Daniel preferred to concentrate on her.

They strolled back through Midtown together toward the MODE offices, still brainstorming funny ways to photograph dogs and shoes. It was the next-to-last day of April, a perfect spring afternoon – sunny, warm and just breezy enough to ruffle Betty's hair. The rain clouds were all gone. Daniel felt his spirits rising to match hers as optimism flowed into him along with the sunshine.

She was doing better. Not just better – great. Life had thrown some obstacles her way, but she was back in step now. Eager to take on new challenges. New pursuits.

Maybe new romances.

So how could they begin? Daniel hadn't gotten as far as making plans yet. Just tackling her across his desk one day wasn't the way to go – though that was pretty good fantasy fodder, now that he thought of it. They could take in a movie or get dinner, not so different than usual, but he could sort of lead into it … start putting his arm around her, sound her out, see if the idea was taking root for her …

"Oh, dropped ice cream!" Betty seized his arm as they walked into the Meade Publications lobby, mostly emphasizing her point, but he noticed she kept holding onto him as they went. "The woman can have dropped her ice cream from the cone – some really bright sherbet – right next to white shoes, and the puppy can lick it up."

"Cute," said Sofia Reyes.

Dammit, twice in two days? "Good afternoon," Daniel said, pulling Betty toward the elevators; Sofia seemed to be on her way out, so there was no need for them to chat.

As they went, though, Betty threw Sofia a look over one shoulder. "Thanks – but I didn't ask you." Sofia looked like she'd been smacked for the split second he saw her before the elevator doors shut around them.

Daniel gave Betty an admiring look. "Mee-yow."

She wrinkled her nose. "That sounds really weird when you say it."

"It does, doesn't it? Won't say it again. But still – you really shut her down." He settled himself, legs apart, shoulders squared – editor guy again – but he couldn't stop his smile. "I appreciate it."

"That was for me as much as for you. She not only hurt you – she used me to do it. And I looked up to her, you know? That was the kind of person I was trying to be. At any rate, I was trying to be the kind of person she was pretending to be." Betty's phone chimed, and when she glanced down at it, her eyes widened. "Oh, my God."

"Is everything okay?" Not her father, please – but no. Betty was starting to grin.

"This guy – sorry, but I actually – well, I put my profile on this dating site this morning. During a totally legitimate coffee break, I swear! And this guy wants to meet for dinner tonight." Betty showed Daniel the screen, which revealed the picture of a dispiritingly attractive young man. "He's hot, right?"

Daniel swallowed hard. "Smoking."

"You know what? I'm going for it." Betty started typing enthusiastically. "I'll see if he can meet me for late drinks – that gives me time to get back in from the hospital. And hey, that's kind of sexy, right? A late night cocktail?"

Dead sexy. Daniel could see her now, walking through a candlelit bar, long hair brushing her shoulders, a drink in hand as she looked at her date. Her date who was _somebody else. _

He cleared his throat. "Are you sure you're not – I don't know – rushing things?"

"I am rushing. That's the whole point. I'm running at everything life gives me as fast as I can." She threw a saucy smile at him as she strode off the elevator. "And I'm loving it."

Daniel managed to get back to his office on autopilot.

All this time, he'd been worried about hurrying things – and instead, she was leaving him behind.

**oooooo**

Bryant Park was a fabulous place for outdoor lunching on a beautiful day, and Marc had managed to snag a table right next to the green grass. So he should have been elated. Not deflated.

"Why are you so sad?" Amanda dug into her massive sandwich from 'Wich-craft. "Cliff's back in your life, right?"

"He's back in my office building. Big difference."

"Doesn't have to be." She licked a bit of mayo from the corner of her mouth, like a contented cat. "Love's not that complicated, really."

"Oh, puh-leeze. Tyler calls you once during his designated 15 minutes of phone time a week, and all of a sudden, you're Oprah and Dr. Phil wrapped into one."

Amanda shrugged. "Learn from my wisdom or don't, puny mortal. But here's what I see when I break it down, Mandy-style." She started ticking off points on her fingers. "You want a good relationship. The best relationship you ever had was with Cliff. You're 100 percent responsible for that blowing up in your face – "

"Is this a pep talk or psychological torture? Because the distinction seems a little hazy for you."

Plowing on, undeterred, Amanda said, "—because Cliff always wanted to be with you. Then, you weren't ready to commit to someone. Now, you are. And now Cliff's back in your life. Explain to me how that is bad news."

Well. When he broke it down – Mandy-style – it didn't look that bad. It didn't look bad at all, really. Except … "He wasn't happy to see me. It was like he didn't care at all."

"Bruised feelings. It's natural. You can get him past that. Especially if you wear those hot-ass skinny jeans I found for you."

Jeans at MODE? Only doable on a summer Friday, and then only if he accessorized the hell out of them. But they did cup the right curves. "I don't know. But maybe it's worth a shot."

"You know it is." Amanda picked up the second half of her sandwich, ready to devour it as quickly as the first. "Go get your man, baby."

**oooooo**

Wilhelmina wasn't good at humbling herself, but at least when it came to her father, she had some practice.

"I find this questionable at best, Wanda." He was in full senatorial mode, his bass voice rumbling so that she could feel the aftershocks all the way from Washington, D.C. "Connor Owens nearly destroyed your company."

"I need to talk to him, Dad."

"This isn't like you." The pause that followed made Wilhelmina wish they were having this conversation face to face, instead of over the phone; her dad almost sounded … concerned. "You don't risk your career over your personal life. You don't risk your career for anything."

"I'm not risking my career. It's like you said – the man is in jail. What damage can he do?"

"You tell me."

She almost regretted even telling her father that she and Connor had been involved. Then again, a year and a half ago, the possibilities for them had seemed endless. When she thought of how joyfully Connor had entered into every phase of her life – even holding baby William during the few months she thought he was hers, willing to change their sophisticated, sexy romance into a cuddly little family – the only time she'd ever wanted anything cuddly in her whole life –

Well. She wasn't going to think about that any longer.

Instead, she lashed out. "This is about getting answers, Dad. After the last round of ethics hearings, I should think you'd appreciate the importance of getting the straight story."

He snapped, "If this is what you want, Wanda, then take it. Connor Owens is indeed incarcerated at Adirondack. Enjoy your drive upstate, and your straight story. May they provide all the comfort you'll ever need."

The connection went dead. Wilhelmina paused, wanting to call him back and apologize, but knowing she wouldn't.

Besides, she had other matters to plan now.

Such as a trip upstate.

**oooooo**

That night, Betty left the hospital in good spirits – Dad was better than he'd been since the heart attack, and even Elena was in a better mood. Plus, she had her date to look forward to. As ever, she was even trying to think of magazine pitches that related to what was going on with her day: The 10 Sexiest Cocktails You Can Order? Meaningless, but fun, and probably worth a shot. Not that she was going to have ten cocktails tonight.

But she was definitely good for two cocktails. Maybe even three. It was a Friday night, and she had a date with a hot guy, and her life was definitely back on track.

As she began walking up the subway steps, though, she found herself slowing – hesitating before she reached the top. Betty knew it was ridiculous, but she couldn't shake the thought of her mugger waiting there, ready to hit her again …

Her stomach clenched. Despite the warm weather, a chill shivered over her body, and suddenly her limbs felt too heavy to move. Betty's fingers reached for her throat, seeking her B necklace by force of habit; she'd never realized that she sometimes touched it for courage until now, when it wasn't there. She stopped, halfway up the steps, just for a second – until somebody behind her called, "Move it!"

Betty moved it. Squaring her shoulders, she decided that if anybody messed with her this time, they'd be sorry.

Nobody did. It was a nice night, and everyone was out; even by NYC standards, the streets were crowded. Betty strode toward the restaurant, her courage returning to her with each step.

Of course, she had braced herself. There was every chance that "Nelson" was not, in fact, the gorgeous, chisel-jawed blond she'd seen in his online photo, but instead a balding, twitchy 50-year-old who would smell like Burger King wrappers. But the actual outcome of the date itself didn't matter that much to her; it was more about having the guts to try it.

At least, it didn't matter much until she walked into the bar, looked through the relative gloom – and saw the gorgeous, chisel-jawed blond himself, raising a hand to her in welcome.

_Whoa_, Betty thought. _Maybe Mercury left retrograde all of a sudden. _

"Nelson? Hi! I'm Betty." She slid onto the barstool next to him. "Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you too! Thanks for being game to 'speed date' – sometimes you just need to get out, you know?" Nelson had a great smile. He wore nice cologne, and not too much of it. He looked like he could have stepped out of the pages of HUDSON. And he leaned slightly closer to her as she got settled. This night – this whole week – was definitely looking up.

"Absolutely. So – now we have to do the whole 'tell me about yourself' thing." Betty tried out a flirtatious smile; the idea was still new to her, post-braces, but she was determined to get the hang of it. "Any idea how to keep it fresh?"

"Hmmm. No answers of more than two words. Plus, no questions. Just back and forth."

"Sounds good. Okay, I'll start. Hmmm – I know! Magazines."

"Real estate."

"Single."

"Divorced."

"Taurus."

"Gemini."

"Lifetime local."

"From Iowa."

She was really starting to like this guy. "Crazy family."

"Crazy family."

"Love them."

"Same here."

They both started to laugh at the same moment, which was when the bartender finally noticed they were alive. "What are you guys having?"

Nelson said, "Scotch and soda."

So, what would be a sexy cocktail to order? For some reason, Betty found herself flashing back to a MODE event early in her time there; she'd found it so funny that Daniel drank anything as girly as an appletini, and yet she'd somehow always thought of it as a sexy drink ever since. She shaped her full lips around the word: "Appletini, please."

Nelson's face crumpled. As she watched, flabbergasted, his eyes began to fill with tears.

"Nelson? What's wrong?" Betty put one hand on his shoulder, just in time to feel it start shaking.

"I'm sorry. It's just – an appletini – that was Anjuli's drink."

Well, she'd known there had to be a catch somewhere. With a sigh, she patted him reassuringly. "Tell me about Anjuli."

Anjuli turned out to be Nelson's ex-girlfriend, from whom he'd split up only two weeks before. She was the person he'd started dating just after his divorce. "My rebound, right? I always thought she was just a rebound." He took a swig of his second scotch; by now, they were in a corner booth and he'd been venting for nearly half an hour. "So I told myself all the differences between us didn't matter. So what if she was ten years older than me? So what if she was vegan? So what if she never wanted to move to Iowa someday? She wasn't Miss Right. She was Miss Right Now."

"But you're having second thoughts."

"We split up – I told her I didn't see a future for us, so she walked – and now all I can think about is how much different my future would look with her in it. How much _better._"

"I think you should tell her that. Don't you?"

"She wants to have a baby soon," Nelson said. His face started to brighten. "That ought to scare me, but – it doesn't. Jesus, I don't care if I ever eat bacon again. If that's not love, what is?"

"See?" Betty had to smile at him. "You know what you need to do. So your future doesn't look the way you planned it. Nobody's does, in the end."

Nelson slumped back in the booth, obviously happier and more relaxed than he'd been since she'd arrived – really, she thought, since he'd broken up with Anjuli. "God, I feel so much better just having talked to you about this. First thing tomorrow morning, I start Operation Get Anjuli Back."

"That's the spirit."

He gave her a look. "I feel bad – I mean, you thought you were going on a date tonight. Instead you've played couples counselor."

Betty shrugged as she traced the rim of her appletini glass. "It's okay. I've enjoyed it anyway." Weirdly, she had. Somehow, talking Nelson through his problems had brought her back to herself … not the depressed, frightened person she'd been during her string of bad luck, nor the crazily enthusiastic woman she'd been all day. That, too, had been fear; she'd just chosen a different way of showing it. Now she felt that she was back on steady ground.

"You're a hell of a girl," Nelson said. "Any guy who wasn't madly in love with someone else would be thanking his lucky stars right now, just for the chance to meet you."

"Hopefully some guy will soon. For now – here's to love." They clinked their glasses together for the final toast of the night.

**oooooo**

Daniel held off on texting Betty all weekend. Saturday morning, he'd thought, was too soon to text and ask how her hot date went; that was too obvious. Pushy. He didn't want to push. Then it was Saturday night, and he didn't particularly feel like revealing that he was spending his Saturday night at home watching a marathon of "Say Yes To The Dress." No, Sunday. Sunday would be good.

But then he'd spent Sunday thinking that he'd left it too long, and every hour he wondered if it really was too late just made it later, so he'd decided to text or talk to her about it today. Or maybe email.

By the time he walked into the Meade Publications building at nine a.m., Daniel had settled on contacting Betty via text at or about 10:13 a.m. as the perfect, non-pushy, yet still concerned time frame.

Box tucked under his arm, he walked into the elevator – but before the doors could shut, Sofia stepped in too, wearing an orange sheath dress that outlined every curve of her sensational body. Daniel tried not to visibly flinch. Sofia said, "Rotten luck we're having."

"Definitely."

"I don't usually get in this late."

"I don't usually get in this early. So we should be good from here on."

"Okay." They rode another couple of flights up in silence, before Sofia said, "Listen, Daniel. I know it would be better if we never talked about this again – but you should know that I've sincerely regretted what I did to you every single day since. I'm truly sorry."

Did he care? A little, maybe. But mostly he didn't want to talk about it. "I appreciate that. But let's just leave it in the past, all right? Better all around."

"In the past," Sofia agreed, her expression thoughtful. "You weren't like this, when I first knew you. Mature, or strong. You've superseded all my expectations."

"I haven't been waiting for you to issue me a report card." Well, that was bitchy. Daniel sighed and tried again. "Seriously, let's let it go."

"Let me say one more thing, and then it's over forever," she promised. "The person I pretended to be with you … that's the person I wish I were more like. The person I hope to be when I grow up, if we ever really grow up. I'm grateful I knew you, if for no other reason that I learned what that person was like."

The person she'd pretended to be. The real woman he loved. Daniel was too familiar with that idea.

But he found himself remembering something Betty had said after their lunch at Café Un Deux Trois: The person Sofia had been pretending to be was also the person Betty had hoped to become.

The person Betty_ had_ become.

Successful, confident, warm, family-oriented, funny, spirited, brave, principled, caring: That was Betty. That was the woman he loved.

All those years ago, he hadn't fallen in love with the woman Sofia was; he'd fallen in love with the woman Betty was going to be.

Why had it taken him so long to realize it?

Daniel realized that he'd started grinning like a loon. As the elevator reached MODE's floor, he quickly said, "That's great. Thanks, Sofia."

"Thanks, Daniel," she said, in a way that made him think she might believe that smile was for her. But it didn't matter what Sofia thought. What he'd just learned about himself mattered a whole lot more.

**oooooo**

As Betty leaned into Daniel's office, she said, "Nothing."

Daniel looked up from the Book, startled. "Huh?"

She held up her phone with the text he'd sent her at 10:13 that morning, which read, _What happened with your date? _ "Nothing happened with my date."

He smiled at her so broadly that he must have been attempting to reassure her. "Let me guess. That wasn't his real photo on the profile?"

"That was his real photo, and in fact, he was a terrific guy." Betty sat on one of the white leather chaise-longues with a sigh. "But he wasn't over his ex. So I talked him into getting back together with her – which he has, by the way. He emailed me about it on Sunday. The three of us might do brunch sometime."

Daniel rose from his desk and walked toward her, his expression bemused. "I don't know whether to sympathize with you or congratulate you."

"Neither, I think." Betty scooted over to make room for him to sit beside her on the chaise. "Last week – after the mugging – I was acting a little crazy. It was like, if I didn't tackle the whole world at once, it would tackle me."

"It seemed like it had tackled you."

"I know, right? But it's okay. I've got my feet under me again."

"So, the Tae Kwon Do lessons are off, then."

"No – I think I'm going to check those out. I mean, it's good exercise, right? But I've … calmed down a bit. And I took down the dating-site profile," she confessed. "It's worth waiting on someone who really knows me, you know? Not just a picture on a screen. Someone who cares about who I really am."

"Great idea," Daniel said. "Fantastic. Totally – yeah."

"Well, you're awfully enthusiastic," Betty teased. "Do you have someone in mind?" She shuddered to think of who Daniel might set her up with. Images of a potential blind date between her and Becks flickered in her mind, like the most hilarious movie she never, ever wanted to see.

Daniel looked awkward for a moment – poor guy, did he think she actually expected him to fix her up? – but he quickly changed the subject. "Listen. I did something. It's either really thoughtful or massively insensitive. I'm not sure which."

"Okay, you've piqued my interest."

"If it's massively insensitive, can I get a take-back?"

"Oh, wait, this involves me?" Betty braced herself. "All right. You get a take-back, just in case. We can put this whole next couple of minutes on rewind if necessary."

He took a deep breath, then handed her something from the pocket of his suit jacket – what looked to be a jewelry box. "This is partly because I forgot your birthday again."

"This year_ I_ forgot my birthday." Having your father hospitalized just a few days beforehand could throw you off, big time. "So you're off the hook this time. But still – I'll take it." Instead of smiling at her, he seemed to get more nervous. What kind of birthday gift could he have gotten her that was potentially massively insensitive? She glanced up at him quizzically before opening it … and then all she could do was stare down at the golden letter B.

"I know nothing can actually replace the necklace your mom got you," Daniel said in a rush. "Maybe it was stupid to even try. But – Mom's a member of all the museums, and I saw this in the Met catalog a couple of months ago and thought, 'hey, that's Betty's necklace.' It's a replica of one Anne Boleyn used to have, but, uh, I'm sure you knew that. Anyway. If this is only, I don't know, a bad reminder of what you lost, I can send this right back, but I thought maybe –"

Betty cut him off by throwing her arms around him and hugging him as tightly as she possibly could. After a second, he embraced her in turn. They didn't talk for a while after that; she wasn't even sure she could get words out of her throat, which was tight with unshed tears.

Finally, Daniel said, "So, no rewind?"

"No rewind." Betty let him go so that she could pick the necklace up. It was exactly like the lost one in every way. "This was definitely on the really thoughtful side."

He still looked sheepish, like he couldn't believe he'd gotten this right. "You're sure? I don't want to act like you didn't lose something important to you."

As Betty unclipped the necklace, she said, "You're right. Nothing really replaces Mom's necklace. But this – this one can remind me of what she gave to me, and how much she loved me. And also how lucky I am to have you in my life." She grinned up at Daniel. "_This_ B necklace reminds me of two people I care about, not just one. So that makes it pretty special." She handed it to him. "Put it on me?"

Carefully, he slid the necklace around her neck, and she lifted her heavy hair so that he could fasten the clasp. His fingertips brushed against her skin, making her almost ticklish – that and his breath upon her shoulder – but then the familiar weight of the B and its pearls settled against her chest again, and she breathed out a deep sigh of relief. "That's good?" Daniel said.

"That's perfect." Betty kissed him on the cheek – quick and sweet – and was surprised to see him blush a little. Daniel really could be adorable sometimes. "I'd say Mercury is definitely out of retrograde."

**oooooo**

Later that night, at home, as Betty changed into her pajamas while keeping the necklace on, she found herself remembering Daniel's face as he'd given it to her. He really was one of the best people in her life – not just now, but ever.

_And so you're thinking of abandoning him? _

A few feet away, upon her laptop screen, was her updated resume and the email she'd composed to prospective employers. It had been up for the better part of an hour, and she still wasn't sure what to do.

Betty took a seat in front of the computer and thought about it. Her fingers fondled the B at her throat while she thought, _Daniel's not someone I could ever walk away from. I always want us to be close, and I know he feels the same way. _

The natural conclusion to draw from that was simple: They would forever be a part of each other's lives – whether she worked at MODE or not.

Relieved, confident once more, Betty grinned as she clicked SEND.

END

Next time, on Ugly Betty Season Five: New York, New York – "The Homecoming Game."

_Songs From This Episode: "You and Moon," Adem; "Violin," Amos Lee; "Melt Your Heart," Jenny Lewis and the Watson Twins; and "Shine (Club Mix)" by the Lovefreeks_


	4. The Homecoming Game, Part One

"**The Homecoming Game" **

Cheap apartment buildings in New York had no buzzer at all. Semi-cheap buildings – like the one Betty lived in – had buzzers, which seldom worked. Fairly nice buildings had video intercom systems that stayed in good repair. Really nice buildings had a doorman, who was usually cheerfully friendly.

And then there was this building on the Upper East Side, which had a lobby beyond that of a luxury hotel, complete with dry-cleaners; gourmet market; directions to the pool, spa, exercise club and screening room; and a doorman who dressed like a footman to the queen of England and acted like her butler.

"I'm here to see Apartment 23A," Betty said to him, feeling absurdly like she ought to curtsy.

"And may I ask your business in the unit?" The doorman's English accent was _better_ than the Queen's.

Betty had no answer but the truth: "I don't know. Besides bringing him this." She lifted the bag in her left hand, oily with mayonnaise stains.

Although cool, proper disapproval radiated from the doorman, he duly made the call to the unit, nodded, and said, "You may ascend."

The elevators had little news tickers in them, just like the Meade Publications building. The carpet read HAVE A PLEASANT THURSDAY.

That added the perfectly surreal touch to a day that was already several flavors of bizarre. Betty had taken the bus to work instead of the subway, the better to argue with her father's insurance providers the whole way there. Then she'd arrived at MODE to find this invitation to the Upper East Side on her lunch hour, an assignment to oversee a photo shoot that very afternoon, and an email from a guy at the NEW YORKER she'd befriended back when they were both assistants. He was now an editor, telling her they didn't have any vacancies at the moment … but he suspected a coworker intended to resign instead of returning from her maternity leave next month, so he was going to keep Betty posted.

So she'd spent her morning feeling like a tightrope walker, trying to balance her family, her desire for a new direction in her career, and her commitments to MODE and to Daniel – which were becoming very much two separate things. Betty sighed as the glowing circles moved to higher and higher numbers on the elevator; it seemed like the higher up she went, the farther she had to fall.

By the 23rd floor, there were only two apartments per unit. The door for 23A stood ajar, so she stepped through and called, "Daniel?"

"Betty! You made it!"

She walked inside to see a world of white on white – marble hallway, crown molding, 14-foot-ceilings. The hall was wider than most NYC bedrooms. At the far end of it, in front of a window almost as tall as the wall, Daniel stood. Despite the light framing him, she could tell he was smiling.

"Yeah, I made it." Lifting the bag she'd brought, she said, "And I brought our lunch. Where are we?"

"We are at what might become my new apartment." Daniel walked toward her, tapping rolled papers into one palm; she realized they were building specs.

"New apartment? You're moving?"

"Got a letter from the management of my building – they're going condo. We have to buy within three months or get out." They met in the middle of the hallway, from which Betty could see the palatial living room and, beyond it, what looked to be not only a large kitchen but also a separate dining room: Manhattan's luxury of luxuries. Daniel continued, "I could buy, but … you know, it was Molly's apartment. Then it was our apartment. I think maybe it's time to find a place that's mine."

_He's moving on from Molly, for real_, Betty thought. The realization made her feel strange … happy for him, but at the same time, vaguely uneasy. If Daniel was moving on, where was he moving on to?

Well, yes, this place, but that was just literal. Figuratively, it could be anything. It was strangely unsettling to think of Daniel changing, though there was no rational reason for that to make her feel insecure. She said only, "The carpet in the elevators knew it was Thursday."

"Crazy, right? Yesterday, when I looked at this place for the first time, the carpets said HAVE A PLEASANT WEDNESDAY. I think that butler guy changes them at midnight."

"Well, this apartment is gorgeous. Do I even want to see the master bath, or will I actually turn green from jealousy?"

"A two-person surround-shower." As they walked into the living room, Daniel fished a sandwich out of the sack, glanced at it, and handed it to her; he knew what she'd ordered, just as she'd known what to pick up for him without being told. "It's half the size of my office."

Betty groaned in envy, making a joke of it though the emotion was real. New Yorkers loved their Yankees, their Mets, their Giants, their Jets, but every single one of them knew the city's number-one sport would always be real estate. "I don't want to know the actual purchase price, but are we talking seven figures or eight?"

"By the time we're done negotiating? High seven." Daniel wasn't bragging; he was thinking practically, she could tell, stating the facts and no more. Still, though, it was sometimes staggering to remember the gulf between their budgets … particularly when they were standing side by side, eating sandwiches out of the same paper bag. "So, what do you think?"

"Me?" Betty realized she shouldn't have been surprised to have been asked; Daniel liked to consult her about nearly everything. But this – this was big, and way out of her experience. One more tug to make her waver on the tightrope: However, she gave it her best shot. "Well, any Manhattan real estate counts as a solid investment, and this place – no matter when you sold it, you'd never lose money on it."

A little frown-line appeared between Daniel's eyebrows. "No, I mean, do you like it? Could you see yourself spending time here?"

"It's beautiful, but – " How could she possibly criticize a place so gorgeous? "Well, it seems a little cold, maybe. Really formal. Not at all like you." Hastily, Betty added, "But look at all the amenities! Great neighborhood, too. And hey, a two-person shower. You must have big plans for it."

Normally her occasional risqué jokes made him laugh, but this time he actually seemed a little embarrassed. Without meeting her eyes, he said, "Cold. I can sort of see that."

"Daniel. It doesn't matter what I think; you're the one buying it."

"Your opinion is important to me."

"Well, thank you. But if you want me to do a full inspection, I'll have to come back later." She munched on one of the sandwich crusts, downing her lunch quickly. "I need to get back to the office, because I need to get out early tonight."

"What's up? Tae Kwon Do?"

Betty had been holding back her biggest smile, waiting for the moment when she could share her news: "Dad's doing better than they'd hoped. He's coming home tonight!"

Daniel's face lit up; he was almost as thrilled as she was. "Oh, Betty. That's fantastic."

"So I have copyedits to finish before 4:30." The balancing act only got trickier, but Papi's return home was worth all the effort. She handed Daniel the bag and dusted off her hands as she walked back out. "And you have to inspect your own apartment, mister."

**oooooo**

Ah, MODE. Silly MODE. She'd outgrown it, of course.

That was why she kept coming back, Amanda decided. To see just_ how much_ she'd outgrown it. Like putting on your emergency fat pants to see how many corn dogs you could eat in a crisis, but in reverse.

"Are you still here?" That Megan girl gave Amanda one of her fake nicey-nice smiles. "That's so cute, how you always drop in!"

"That's so cute, how you're passive aggressive all the time." Amanda's fake nicey-nice smile could take down Megan's any day.

At that moment, Marc swooped in, and she thought they were going to outbitch Megan together, just like old times, but instead he clasped her at the elbow and was like, "Mandy, darling! So glad you could make it. This way, please."

"Are you my favorite accessory, or am I yours?" Amanda always enjoyed strutting down the Tube with Marc. "And why are you acting like you invited me here? Is it part of your master plan to make Cliff your love slave once more?"

"Cliff's not in this week. I have to wait for him to get another HUDSON assignment before I can make my move and have it be appropriately casual instead of obviously desperate." He steered her into the coed bathroom, did some checking under the stalls, then hissed, "I'm saying that I invited you here because it doesn't look good for you to keep inviting yourself. Appearances, Amanda! We both know that nothing matters more!"

She frowned and crossed her arms as she leaned against the wall. Did her pink dress clash with the orange or create a dramatic contrast? But somehow she sensed this wasn't the time to ask. "I was bored."

Marc sighed and rubbed her arm. "Still no new clients?"

"I don't understand. I have one client. The first is supposed to be the hardest. But then, he's my dad, so maybe he doesn't count. I still have to get my hardest client, Marc." She felt very small all of a sudden. "Sitting at home makes me all weird. I do my nails, and then I do them again, and watch my father on TV making out with girls, and it's like nothing I know is real anymore."

"Well, I'm the only one who's noticed that you're stealing office supplies. So far, that is."

"How did you know?"

"For one, I found a new box of Bic pens between the sofa cushions yesterday, and for two, toilet paper that scratchy isn't sold to individuals, only institutions." He slipped his arm around her for a reassuring cuddle. "But if anybody catches on, it's going to suck. We are talking early-Betty levels of ridicule if people find out."

That meant many troubling things: the satirical Tumblrs, the screensavers of unflattering pictures, maybe even the commemorative likeness piñata. God, that had been an awesome Christmas party. When she imagined an Amanda-pinata instead, though, the awesomeness levels dipped sharply. She shifted her weight from one ankle-booted heel to another. "So I can't come see you anymore?"

"You have to let Uncle Marc think about it long and hard to come up with a solution." He pushed her forward, out of the bathroom, toward the elevators. Another long afternoon of nothing stretched in front of her. Amanda remembered the lyrics to the song – _if I can make it there, I'll make it anywhere _– and thought, _well, if I can't make it here, maybe I could still make it somewhere else. _

It was mostly a joke. But kind of not.

She kept her head high as she stalked into the nearest elevator, which opened for her as if on cue. At least her exit would be totally hot. But as the doors began to close, Marc stuck his hand in. "Hey, Amanda?"

"Yeah?"

"You're my favorite accessory of all time."

It was funny, how smiling at someone who was smiling back at you could make you want to cry.

**oooooo**

Justin had thought he'd have another day for the production design on Grandpa's homecoming, but sometimes spontaneity provided its own inspiration.

When he got Mom's text during third period, he quickly messaged Austin:_ OMG, Grandpa's homecoming 2nite – bring the tinsel! _

The reply was immediate: _You got it!_

Not only did he have a real true boyfriend, but he also had one who knew the importance of hanging onto some holiday garlands for year-round use. Plus, Grandpa was well enough to come home. And this stupid semester was almost over, which mean the years of high school he had to live through were down to two. Justin's life was definitely looking up.

By the time the taxi arrived that evening, Justin and Austin had worked their magic. Tinsel lined all the corners, all the trim, even the TV. He'd finished his art project, though maybe the glue was still drying. As he peered out the window at Mom and Aunt Betty helping Grandpa from the taxi, while Bobby grabbed the bag from the trunk, he said, "Okay, one last thing."

"What?" Austin looked around, so bewildered it was almost funny.

"We won't have a chance to do this for a while, so – " Justin leaned forward and kissed Austin, lips closed – then open.

His heart rushed up higher in his chest, it seemed; he could feel his pulse in his throat, found it hard to catch his breath. Every kiss felt like a miracle to him, the fulfillment of a wish he'd been sure would never come true. _ I love someone who loves me back, and everybody I care about knows and is happy for me – seriously, if this were on "Glee," I'd think it was sappy. How am I living this? _

They drew apart just as the front door opened, and even though they hadn't rehearsed, they shouted together, "Welcome home!"

"Hey, hey." Grandpa still looked so frail, with one arm around Mom and the other around Aunt Betty as they walked him in. But his skin was normal human color now, instead of gray, and instead of a hospital gown, he wore his usual Dockers and short-sleeved cotton shirt … which totally cut him off at the hips, but that was a battle for another day. "Look at this. The house is all sparkly!"

"We tinseled it for you." Justin came forward for a big hug, though Aunt Betty gasped in dismay.

"Justin, no," she said, even as Grandpa embraced him. "We need to get him back to bed."

"_Mija_, I spent the last two weeks in bed. Give a man a minute to hug his grandson and take in the whole disco thing going on here." Justin, now snuggled in Grandpa's arms, stuck his tongue out playfully at Aunt Betty, who smiled despite herself.

She said, "Okay, I guess you can hang out in the recliner for a while, but let's get you sitting down, all right?"

"Take it easy, Chipmunk." Bobby eased past them, headed upstairs, no doubt to ditch the bags. "The doctors wouldn't have let him come home if he wasn't ready, am I right?"

"Exactly," Grandpa said, though as Justin walked him the rest of the way to the recliner, his steps were slow – almost a shuffle. When they sat him down, he laid his head back as if the walk from the curb had almost been too much.

Justin felt a nervous quiver in his belly; he knew Betty had seen it too when she said, "I'd feel better if Elena were here."

"Makes two of us," Hilda said, fussing about, laying an afghan on Grandpa's lap. "But she's gotta arrange her time off, plus get her stuff. You can't expect somebody to make it through six weeks in New York with one weekender bag she packed for a wedding."

"Makes three of us, because I miss my lady friend." Grandpa sighed, almost comic in his longing, and when they stared at him, he added, "Didn't you hear the doctors? I'm not dead yet."

Then everyone laughed, and the weird tension dissolved, and for a while it was almost like things were back to normal. Justin and Austin showed him the art project: a diorama complete with finger puppets of all his favorite telenovela characters, with which they acted out the episodes he'd missed. Plot accuracy was somewhat lacking, but it was worth it to see Grandpa smiling again.

The party couldn't last too long – Grandpa wasn't up to it, and after almost two weeks of going back and forth between work and the hospital, neither were any of the other adults. So Justin ended up walking Austin to the subway station before it was totally dark out.

They didn't hold hands on the street. They were out, not reckless. But Justin felt like his adoration probably shone in every direction, even more sparkly than tinsel. "Thanks for being here for this."

"You know I love being with you. With your whole family." Austin gave him that shy grin that always made Justin shiver. "But mostly with you."

"Speaking of which? We can't really hang out over here any more, not and have any privacy." Privacy was moving higher on Justin's list of concerns, as he and Austin edged deeper and deeper into intimacy. Someday soon, he was hoping for a very long period of very private time. "And Bobby's place is too small for our family as it is, so forget about being alone there. So maybe I can come to your place Saturday night? I've been dying to see it."

Austin's smile faded. "Saturday is bad. Really – after the movie tomorrow, we should probably just, like, count on seeing each other next week."

That was weird – they'd talked about spending Saturday night together just a few days ago. But stuff came up. Justin waited for the explanation: a sick mother, parental dinner party, renovations, whatever. He could deal. No explanation came, however, and that he couldn't deal with. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I gotta go, okay?" His Metrocard already in his hand, Austin swiped it and banged through the gate, where Justin couldn't follow. "See you."

But he didn't say when.

Justin stood beneath the train tracks for the full fifteen minutes it took the next train to arrive and pick Austin up, then rumble and rattle as it took him away.

**oooooo**

Daniel watched the screen of his computer, grinning at the Skype window. "That's fantastic! Can you do it again?"

"I can do it all the time," crowed D.J., though Daniel noted he didn't demonstrate on his skateboard again. "Wait until I come back to New York. You won't believe it."

"When are you guys headed back here?" God, how had it been almost two years since he'd seen Alexis? D.J. was a kid transformed – he must have shot up six inches – but at least they kept up via text and Skype. Alexis, on the other hand, remained remote. They hadn't even discussed Tyler's existence yet. "We'd love to see you."

"I miss you too. Maybe after school is over. I will try." A distant voice called something in French that Daniel didn't understand, but D.J.'s face fell. "I must go in. Soon I call back."

"You better, buddy." Daniel raised his hand in a goodbye wave in the second before the window went dark. Once again, he felt a little wistful for the son he'd thought he had; the responsibility had terrified him then, but he missed it now.

Was what he was feeling for Betty just the desire to begin his own family? That yearning had awakened in him with D.J. and never really died. Daniel weighed this carefully, but he knew – no, what he felt about Betty was a lot more significant than that. Yeah, it was scary to know that he was this serious about her, this soon, but it was true. It was real. It was just up to him to make Betty see it too.

From the door of his office came a knock. He looked up to see his mother in a flame red suit, HOT FLASH proofs in her hands. "Got a second?"

"Sure. You just missed D.J."

"Oh, I wish I'd seen him." Mom's glance at him was less wistful, more pointed. "A woman misses her grandchild. All the more when he's her only grandchild."

"Don't start. What's up? Something with HOT FLASH?"

"What? Oh, no, I just had these with me. I wanted to talk about Tyler."

Tyler's name usually awakened a sort of queasy sensation in Daniel, a lot like being seasick. As he'd grown accustomed to the guy's existence, that seasickness had changed slightly – now it felt like he was on a ocean voyage he actually wanted to be on, one that could be fun, and probably would be, once he got done throwing up. This counted as progress. "Um, sure. Okay."

Her eyebrow arched as she walked toward his desk. "You didn't actually flinch when I said his name this time. How heartwarming."

"I'm working on it."

"I know you are," she said, more softly. "But I need you to keep working. Next week, Tyler reaches the point in his rehabilitation where they like to bring in the family to talk with him. I'm going, and I'd like you to come along."

Daniel fought the urge to groan. "Aren't those things usually about, I don't know, apologizing for past wrongs? Tyler never wronged me. I got him drunk one time, but only because I didn't know he was an alcoholic."

"It's not about apologies. It's about showing support. You can do that, right?"

"I guess." Great, now he sounded like a sulky 10-year-old. "I mean, I can. I will."

Mom's smile gentled. "I'm glad to hear it. Do you want to talk about it some more? Maybe over lunch?"

"We should talk, probably, but not lunch today. I'm looking at another place – one down in Soho, this time. Not that far from my old loft."

"You didn't like the co-op on Lex?"

"Betty said it was cold. Too formal. She was right. Hopefully I can get her to come check out this place, too."

His mother cocked her head, studying him, wearing an expression that could only be called smug. "I take it Betty's opinion is … especially important to you." Daniel remembered, for the first time in a long time, how she had once suspected him of being in love with Betty; back then, he'd thought she was being ridiculous. But no. She'd been using that damned Mother Telepathy thing that was right all the time. How did they do it?

He was only now ready to admit how he felt to himself; he wasn't nearly ready to spill everything to his mother. "Betty's – she's my friend. My best friend. Of course I'm going to ask her about this. It's a big decision!"

"Very well." She shrugged as she rose from the chair. "But, you know, asking a girl where you two should live before you've even asked her out on a date – "

"_Mom_."

As she walked out the door, she pretended to be peering into the distance. "Wait, what's that out in front of your horse? I think it's a cart."

Daniel buried his face in his hands as she strolled away.

**oooooo**

Amanda pranced to the receptionist's station, proud of her summery maxi-dress and the oversized Jackie O sunglasses atop her head, all of which said "on-trend" and "not chained to a desk like you poor suckers" and "definitely not broke, no matter what Chase Online Banking says." Airily she said, "I have an appointment with Marc St. James. Want to get him for me?"

The new receptionist looked wary, because she had already learned to fear Amanda, but ultimately waved her back toward Marc's new office. He had to share it with this accessories editor skag named Luisa, but she was out at some Vuitton show, so they had it to themselves, which was how Amanda liked it. "You're such a genius, inviting me here," she said as she curled up in Luisa's chair like a cat. "You're like hot gay Einstein."

"What do you mean? Wait, no, first tell me I'm a genius again."

"Geeeeeeeeenius."

Marc shivered in theatrical glee, which made her giggle, but soon he was weirdly serious again. "Okay. Now, what do you mean, a genius to invite you here?"

Amanda had thought this was obvious. "If you invite me here, then I'm not just dropping in like someone with no life. I'm a woman with an appointment. We can do this every day!"

"Back it up there, _mon cher_. This is an actual appointment."

"Huh?"

He rolled his office chair closer to hers, taking her armrests in his hands, a smug smile on his face that didn't entirely hide the uncertainty in his eyes. "I want to hire you."

Did she hear that right? She must have. The first thing that popped into her mind was, "MODE already has another receptionist."

"No, no, not as a receptionist. As a photo stylist for shoots."

Amanda knew about photo stylists. They worked with the clothes they were given, the setups they were given. Whichever high-fashion photographer was in house was the boss ... at least, on the big shoots. There were tons of little shoots, too – positioning handbags or bracelets for clip art or close-ups. None of it had any relationship to what she wanted to be doing with her life. "That's not the kind of stylist I am."

"I get that, but still – it's a job, and it would be flexible, so you'd have free time to work with your clients … once you get them."

"Nuh-uh." She pushed back against him so that her chair rolled several inches away. "Seriously, Marc?"

He looked almost wounded, like that time she'd told him his bow tie clashed with his belt. "I don't understand what the problem is."

"The problem is that I'm never, ever coming back here. Not to work, I mean. Nothing ever happened for me at MODE. This is just a place where I get older and marginally, so far invisibly, less cute, but people just keep walking by me like I'm nothing."

"Whoa! Bitter time!"

"I'm not bitter because bitter people are old and ugly, but I'm never coming back here," she insisted.

Marc paused, and she could tell that he didn't want to say the next, but he did anyway: "Amanda – I've covered the whole rent the past two months. I don't make enough money to do that forever. You know I love you, sweetie, but this look doesn't buy itself." His hand gesture took in his slacks, shirt, all of it. "The groceries don't magically appear in the fridge. We don't have the option of switching to candlelight."

"Candlelight is more flattering."

"True, but so not the point."

It wasn't like Amanda had never been angry with Marc before. There was that time she'd found out he'd ended their sham romance for his mother's sake, complete with a bunch of nasty lies about her. Then, that one time, she'd totally been hitting on the bartender at this club, only to find Marc making out with him in the back later, which was outrageous because everybody knew the friend code still applied regardless of the target's sexual orientation. But all those times felt different. Smaller. She didn't want to snark at him about this; she hardly wanted to look at him.

"Fine. I'll do one shoot and pay the stupid rent. One. That's it."

"Amanda – come on – "

She turned her head toward the window as she stuck out her hand. "Give me the details, okay? So I know where to go be servile."

There was a long pause before he set a page in her hands; Amanda crumpled it in her fingers as she stalked out the door.

**oooooo**

Betty scratched the pug puppy between its ears, and it blinked up at her in satisfaction. Seeing one of her ideas come to fruition with Wilhelmina's full approval, getting to oversee the photo shoot all day, and playing with cute little puppies: it would have been her best day of work ever, if the stylist were … anyone else.

"Seriously, don't you feel like we're totally _wasted _here?" Amanda was currently brushing clear nail polish onto the puppy's claws, which the photographer thought would make them shinier. The dog didn't seem to mind this; Amanda obviously minded enough for them both. "MODE is, like, sucking up our youth. Like a vacuum cleaner, or one of those Swiffer things on TV."

"A Swiffer is a mop," Betty pointed out, continuing to scritch the pug's head. "And MODE's not sucking up our youth!"

"I, at least, am still young," Amanda conceded. "But come on, Betty. We are way too good for this place."

Betty wanted to point out that, as late as last February, Amanda had suggested that she consider an alternate career as an MTA employee, "since their coveralls are baggy enough to hide your hips." But she couldn't get into the argument; Amanda's jabs were striking too close to home.

She didn't feel _too good_ for MODE, exactly … but this magazine wasn't where she wanted to spend the rest of her career. At this point, she'd been an assistant editor for nearly a year, long enough to look creditable on her resume; professionally, there was no reason for her to remain. The time had come to find work that was more fulfilling for her and would take her career in the direction she wanted it to go. Betty wanted to write about Gabriel Garcia Marquez instead of Gucci, Pakistani election analysis instead of Pucci. It was time for the next step.

But listening to Amanda bitching about the place that had basically employed her to make catty jokes with Marc and lose phone messages - well, it made Betty wonder. Was she being ungrateful? Did she owe MODE more? She knew she owed Daniel more. Even thinking about handing a resignation letter to Daniel made her heart hurt.

"Look at it this way," Betty ventured, as, in the background, the photographer turned on the wind machine to make an afghan hound's hair ruffle in the breeze, as it stood next to a slinky model in a pair of $1000 rain boots. "This is a pretty fun shoot, right? We're both getting paid to play with puppies all day. Not bad."

"Show me anger!" the photographer yelled to the model, or maybe the afghan hound; it wasn't clear which. They both looked similarly blank, but the photog started snapping off shots anyway.

Amanda pushed her lower lip out in a pout. "I wanted to be painting Lady Gaga's nails. Not – what's this dog's name, anyway?"

"Oh, my God – the dog is named after Lady Gaga! Actually, Lady Pugaga – that's cute, right?" Betty could see that Amanda didn't think it was cute. "Come on, Amanda. Make the best of it. At least all those years you took care of Halston are being put to good use."

"So, what, I'm supposed to become a groomer now?"

"I'm just saying, it could be worse."

Rolling her eyes, Amanda said, "It could be worse for _you_. You're Daniel's pet. I'm actually here in service _to_ pets. Do you see the difference?"

Daniel's pet. His favorite. She'd known it since it became true – in the aftermath of the Sofia Reyes incident – and she'd always tried not to take advantage. And yet there was no denying the security she felt, being one hundred percent aware that the owner of the company would go to the mat for her.

She was ready to get rid of that safety net. But was this how she was going to thank Daniel for giving her that surety – that luxury – for all that time? By saying,_ Thanks, now I've got better places to be, see you later_?

Once again Betty imagined herself on the tightrope … in some detail this time, giving herself a fancy striped costume with a little skirt, and a clip in her hair with feathered plumes. Below her, watching in the crowd, were her family, most of her coworkers, all the jerks from high school: everybody. Daniel seemed to be in the spotlight, wearing the ringmaster's coat and top hat as he pointed up at her with his whip. "_The Beautiful Betty will make the entire walk unassisted – and without a net_!"

No net?

Her phone rang, startling her out of the daydream – and her eyes widened as she saw Daniel's name on screen. Putting one finger to her other ear, the better to block the thumping dance beats for the photo shot, she said, "Daniel! What's up?"

"Betty, hey – why are you shouting?"

"Apparently dogs, like models, can only pose to club music."

"Of course. Well, listen. Lunch is coming up, and there's another place I'm looking at – in SoHo this time – any chance you could come with me? I don't want to rush you – "

"I'd be thrilled to come help out!" Betty chirped, too-cheerful, but it was such a relief to have something to do for him – one small way to relieve her guilt. She'd be the sweetest, most enthusiastic woman he'd ever met; that might balance her on the tightrope for a while longer. "Text me the address; I'll be right there. Do you want me to pick up the sandwiches again?"

"Hey, sure." He sounded so pleased that she was there for him; her guilt only got heavier. "Thanks, Betty."

She disconnected her phone before stuffing it back in her bag. "I'm out for the next hour or so, Amanda. Have you got it?"

Amanda rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I can handle the heady responsibility of playing with dogs."

The photographer shouted, in his thick French accent, "Bring me ze one to lick ze ice cream!"

Betty petted the puppy on the tip of its nose with her finger as Amanda lifted it for its time in front of the camera. "Knock 'em dead, Lady Pugaga."

**oooooo**

Daniel had viewed enough apartments by this point to know that real estate agents used a few tricks to make each place feel more like a home. Baking cookies in the oven, lighting candles, setting "vignettes" at tables with place settings and wine glasses so that people could imagine themselves being right at home.

He wished he'd had time to do some baking here. But this place was phenomenal; surely Betty would like it even without a few chocolate chip cookies to convince her.

Though cookies sounded incredibly good right now -

The doorbell chimed, and he quickly answered it to see Betty standing in the funky exposed-brick hallway, sandwich bag in her hand. "Wow," she said. Her attitude seemed totally different than it had been at the Upper East Side place; there, she'd been a little tense and distracted, but here she seemed … enthusiastic. _Really _enthusiastic. "I mean, there are lofts and there are lofts, but this is – this is like Megaloft."

"It's something else, huh?" Daniel looked proudly at the industrial-chic space behind them. The stainless steel kitchen lined most of one wall; some copper tubes and artfully dinged up columns suggested a dining room without actually dividing the space. A massive flat-screen TV came with the unit and already hung on one wall, giving the place the look of the coolest movie theater ever. The far wall was almost all glass – not a series of windows so much as one great, multi-paned window – revealing an expansive, glamorous view.

"This is amazing! I've never seen anything like it." Betty handed him the bag without really looking at him; her gaze was drawn instead to the ceiling high above them – a solid thirty feet up, save for the upstairs space. As she walked farther inside, her face lit up with that dazzling smile.

She liked it. She really liked it. This was a place Betty could imagine visiting, spending time – moving into –

_Cart_, he reminded himself. _Horse. _

If he wanted to have this future with Betty, it was time for him to get the ball rolling. Yes, Betty had been through the wringer lately. But she was back on her feet, feeling good, working hard. She looked more amazing than ever in a peacock-blue dress with a brilliant green belt and silver pumps. The two of them had been getting along better than ever lately. He didn't need a super-stylish apartment as bait; he needed to suck up his courage and ask her out.

Though maybe the super-stylish apartment would help?

Daniel tugged at his shirt collar with one finger. He hadn't been this nervous about asking a woman out in a really long time. Possibly ever. But he needed to get past it.

"So what's up here?" Betty looked up the "stairs" – actually a glorified stepladder, but one made out of reclaimed railroad ties for that earthy-chic look.

"That's the – " His throat closed up a little on the word. "The bedroom."

"Come up there with me!"

Sweeter words had never been spoken, in Daniel's opinion, even though he knew Betty hadn't said them the way he'd heard them. He moved to follow her, though his steps slowed as Betty began ascending the staircase, the blue skirt of her dress sashaying invitingly as she moved. The angle showed off more of her legs than he usually got to see – and if they weren't model-thin, they were shapely, tan, smooth – undeniably attractive – sexy, actually –

_Stop looking up her skirt and follow her, would you? _

When he joined her in the bedroom space, Betty was already sitting on the edge of the built-in king-size bed, a view that Daniel suspected was going to play a large role in his fantasies going-forward. "This view is amazing," she said, her enthusiasm still building. "You can see all the way up to Midtown from here."

Keeping it casual, Daniel sat beside her and fished out her sandwich. "Yeah, that's one of the main selling points."

As she unwrapped her lunch, she said, almost dreamily, "It must be incredible at nighttime."

Now, how was he supposed to resist that?

Daniel could just imagine it: the entire cityscape lit up with brilliant lights, the distant Empire State Building crowned in its colors of the day. The loft dark except for the brilliance outside. Him and Betty, up here together, preferably wrapped in each other's arms. The city would be like a vast jewel box spread out before them, like a gift he could give to her.

Making love to her in front of the entire damned city of New York …

"Yeah," he managed to reply. "Incredible."

"Oh, by the way – " Betty took the lunch bag from him, reached inside and pulled out, yes, a chocolate chip cookie. "This is the last one the deli had. So I got it for you."

That was just adorable. Daniel could no longer hold back his smile, nor could he remember why he'd been trying. "Tell you what. Let's share." He took hold of the other edge, and they broke it in two. Her grin was one of almost childlike pleasure, and how was that dead sexy too?

Okay. Enough procrastination. Time to act.

"So," he said, keeping it easy. "I've been thinking."

"Smarter and smarter all the time!" Obviously he would be living down the Trista thing for a while now – but Betty's expression suggested she was thinking more of their shared joke than his inexplicable detour away from her.

"Ha ha. No, I was just realizing how long it's been since we did anything besides go to lunch – I mean, yeah, I kind of ended up being your date to Hilda's wedding, but I figure the trip to the ER afterward sort of disqualified that as fun night out." Yes, he had described himself as her date, and she wasn't arguing the point! That was progress! "We should do something."

"You know, we should. I'd like that, Daniel. Really." Betty's hand rested briefly on his forearm, and Daniel felt his heart turn over in his chest. Was she feeling it too? Maybe? Possibly? He was beginning to have fevered visions of the two of them christening this apartment before lunch was over –

He pulled himself back down to earth. "So, do you have any free time this weekend?"

She bit her bottom lip, a gesture he recognized as a sign of hesitation. "Well, I'm at home in Queens on the weekend. Papi's back, you know."

"Oh, right! Of course. How could I forget that? Stupid of me." And selfish, he thought, to forget that Betty had all kinds of responsibilities he didn't have to shoulder.

Betty didn't look dismayed, though. "You know – Dad and I are supposed to be out there by ourselves, because the new Tercino family is going to be enjoying some alone time. I bet Dad wouldn't mind a little company. I know I wouldn't. But you probably don't want to do that. I mean, you've got to have more exciting ways to spend a Saturday night."

"No, that sounds – good." Daniel had fought back the "great" at the last moment, because it would come across as unbelievably fake if he treated a night of nursing care the same way he would've an invitation to a nightclub. But any Betty time was good Betty time. "Low-key. I could use a low-key night for a change."

"God, me too." She sighed, and for a moment he saw how tired she was – how hard she was working to keep up her good cheer. Balancing her time at MODE and her commitments to her family couldn't be easy.

So he placed one hand on her bare shoulder, not a caress – a simple gesture of friendship. "You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah." Betty's smile was more wistful now, and that made him feel even more gooey than before, if that was possible. "Daniel, you're the best. You know that, right?"

"Hardly. Glad you think so, though."

She ducked her head, and for one moment Daniel seriously considered dipping in to kiss her – but no, still too soon. The moment passed, and Betty glanced at her phone and frowned. "I've got to get back to the photo shoot. The dachshund's on at 1:30."

They descended from the bedroom space, one after the other. Daniel wasn't quite sure how to feel. He had patently failed at asking Betty out on a first date. However, he was spending Saturday night with her and her dad, which was a step in the right direction. She'd brought him a cookie, and hey, that counted as _something_, right? Or was he reaching? Probably he was reaching. But, still, cookie.

As Betty collected her purse and headed toward the door, Daniel called, "So, I take it this place gets the Betty Suarez Seal of Approval?"

Betty turned at the door, glancing over her shoulder. "It's not my style, but it's perfect for you, Daniel. Okay, I'm out of here – see you later!"

Not her style. But perfect for him. She still saw them in two totally different worlds. Or, at least, two totally different apartments.

As she shut the door behind her, Daniel slumped against the nearest wall and began to beat his head against it.

_continued tomorrow -_


	5. The Homecoming Game, Part Two

Even early on Saturday morning, Justin could tell the day was going to be a scorcher – the first really hot day of the summer, and only halfway through May. August was going to _suck_.

He and Austin had gone to the movies last night in the heart of Times Square, one of the most fun dates they'd ever had. They'd grabbed Gray's Papaya dogs afterward and wandered the streets talking about how "Iron Man 2" had totally wasted Gwyneth Paltrow's character this go-round; did these people not understand Pepper Potts at all? Then they'd gone down into one of the major subway junctions, walked past the Peruvian flute band busking for money, and just made out there in the middle of thousands of people before they went to their separate train lines. Being so blatant was totally new for Justin – but Austin just brought the crazy out in him, and besides, it took more than two gay kids to get anybody's attention on the New York subway.

Supposedly, they weren't going to see each other again until Monday, when Austin would come to Queens to hang out again.

Really, they were going to see each other today. At least, that was Justin's plan.

He left a note for Mom before leaving; at 9 a.m., she and Bobby were still in bed, supposedly sleeping but probably doing their best to remain quiet while definitely, definitely not sleeping. Justin was kind of skeeved out at the thought of his mother and Bobby ... _you know_ … but hey, they were married, and he was a realist. Plus he had noticed a Victoria's Secret shopping bag on the table the other day. Ten to one, Mom hadn't gone there for the bargains on cotton bikini briefs.

Getting to Austin's neighborhood in Brooklyn only required two line changes on the subway, but Justin had a lifetime's experience with the trains, and so he knew that the way would not be smooth. Sure enough, all the lines were undergoing repairs, which meant he had to wait forever for each train, and they all crawled along the tracks so slowly he could read the graffiti on the inner walls.

Justin knew this trip might be a stupid idea. Unnecessary. Maybe Austin was being all evasive because he had some dorky family plans he was embarrassed to talk about.

(More embarrassing than decorating the front room with tinsel?)

Or he might need to study. Exams were coming up, after all.

(But wouldn't Austin have said that?)

At any rate, there were about a hillion jillion reasons Austin could have for not wanting to see Justin this Saturday besides another guy.

That, of course, was the one that ate Justin up with fear inside.

It was lunchtime before the Q train finally deposited him in the Brooklyn neighborhood of Beverly, where houses outnumbered apartment buildings and cars actually had driveways to park in. He had the address from the gift subscription to MODE he'd given Austin last month. As he walked up the front steps, Justin heard Aunt Betty's voice in his head again – _You know you have nothing to be afraid of, right?_ – swallowed hard, and rang the doorbell.

Austin opened the door himself. Justin smiled. Austin didn't. He looked – petrified.

"Honey, who is that?" That had to be Mrs. Starkey, Austin's mom. Justin brushed himself off, ready to be presented to the fam for the first time – until she added, "Did you and Lily ask another friend over to join you?"

Lily?

Lily the girl they were pretending to fight over in acting class? That Lily?

She appeared behind Austin … yes, that Lily. Guilelessly, suspecting nothing, she lit up at the sight of Justin. "Oh, my God! Where have you been? I've missed you."

"Missed you too," Justin said, which was sort of true, but the words came out as if on autopilot. He couldn't look away from Austin's wide, haunted eyes for long – until he was distracted by Lily's arms curving possessively around Austin's waist.

"Are you coming in? Austin didn't tell me you were coming over. But I'm so psyched." Lily called out, "Mrs. Starkey, we need to order a large pizza for lunch after all! Justin's going to watch 'Rent' with us."

Which he did.

It was the longest, most awkward, most miserable two hours of Justin's life – sitting on the far edge of the sofa, watching Lily and Austin next to each other, while Mrs. Starkey brought them pizza and sodas from time to time.

By the time the movie ended and he'd come to himself enough to make an excuse and get the hell out of there, Justin felt almost sick. He stumbled back to the train like a zombie and fought back tears the whole long torturous way back home to Queens.

**oooooo**

Amanda reached into the tie display at Pink and pulled out a mauve silk one that shimmered in her hand. "You _have_ to put this with the gray shirt. I'm not even kidding. I'll disown you if you don't."

"Parents disown children, not the other way around." Spencer took the tie from her and pursed his lips. "But the shade is divine, so we don't have to test the theory. You've really got the touch for this."

"Wish Marc thought so."

"What's the matter, pumpkin?" They were using this Saturday afternoon shopping spree to try out sample nicknames for her – "honey" and "sweetheart" were too girlfriendy, but "munchkin" had been rejected as juvenile and also discriminatory against dwarves. "Pumpkin" suggested roundness, which was bad, but it was kind of cute, wasn't it? Spencer gave her a suitably fatherly look as he continued, "Did you and your platonic lifemate have a spat?"

Amanda hadn't meant to bring it up, but being surrounded by stylish, high-end menswear inevitably reminded her of Marc. And with the bow tie rack only a couple feet away … "He totally insulted me."

"I thought that was the whole point of your friendship."

"The whole point of our friendship is insulting _other people_ while reaffirming that we are, yes, the two most fabulous people in New York." Spencer gave her a look, and she amended it: "In the Under 45 Division."

"That's better."

"Anyway, he wants me to go back to MODE, where I spent the last few years of my life – no, wasted the last few years of my life getting nowhere."

Shaking his head, Spencer said, "You can't go back to answering phones. It looks desperate. Looking desperate is worse than being desperate, any day."

Amanda wanted to agree with this truism, although in her life, it was becoming increasingly difficult to tell the difference. Instead, she corrected him: "Marc doesn't want me to be a receptionist again. He wants me to style photo shoots. Which is not the kind of stylist I am, _at all_, so, what is that, even."

Her father shook his head, but affectionately. "Sugar – "

"Go back to Pumpkin. I think I like it."

"Pumpkin, you have to see the potential in things."

"What potential is there in a job that sucks?"

"Well, lots. You can't think of the job itself. You have to think of how you'd play it." He leaned conspiratorially across the ties. "The photographers you'd be meeting at MODE are the best in the business, right?"

"… yeah … but photographers don't hire fashion stylists. Celebrities do."

"And whom do you think they ask for recommendations?" Spencer arched an eyebrow in the oh-so-meaningful way he usually did on his soap opera when he got a phone call right before a commercial break. "Plus, you'll meet models all the time – both major stars and up and comers. Make a good impression, and the next time one of them gets a TV show and needs a stylist of her own, guess who gets the call?"

Oh._ Oh._ It all made so much more sense now. Amanda had always had a vague idea that there was something she could've been doing at MODE besides answering the phones, eating Reese's Pieces and hiding Betty's office supplies, but the possibilities had never been concrete to her before now. "That totally does work, doesn't it?"

"So you'll take the job?" When she nodded, her father clapped his hands together. "I gave fatherly advice! How was it?"

"It was awesome!" Amanda hooked her arm through Spencer's. "Let's go to Pinkberry after this and make fun of people who walk by outside."

Tenderly he folded his hand over hers. "We're only the greatest father-daughter team ever!"

"Ever!"

**oooooo**

Betty's first full day alone with her now-invalid father was like a kind of roller coaster dipping between panic and boredom.

Dad had trouble getting down the stairs in the morning – panic!

He found a CSI: Miami marathon running on cable – boredom.

She couldn't locate some of the paperwork that told her what was and wasn't safe for him to eat – panic!

It turned out they were now stuck with raw veggies and poached chicken breasts – boredom.

Though she knew it was foolish of her, Betty kept glancing at her father every few seconds. He never showed any sign of distress or pain, only tiredness, and yet it seemed as if her brain had that horrible moment from Hilda's wedding on repeat … she'd been so happy, thinking of this perfect future stretching out before her, dancing with Daniel, only to turn and see and see Dad falling, and for one horrible instant believing him dead …

Of all the moments not to replay over and over – and yet, Betty knew she'd never totally shake it.

When Daniel made his appearance in the early evening (DVDs and "healthy Chinese" takeout in hand), Betty felt torn once again – but this time between happiness and guilt.

Daniel was here, and he gave her a big hug that was somehow exactly what she needed, and the whole mood of the house lifted – happiness!

She'd taken his totally innocent invitation to a movie or something and turned it into a pity errand he had to run, forcing one of New York's most eligible bachelors to spend his Saturday night in Queens – guilt.

They got totally silly watching the rest of the CSI: Miami marathon, trying to make even worse puns than David Caruso so that Papi would laugh – happiness!

Daniel made an offhand remark about the October issue of MODE that reminded her she had zero intention of being around for that issue if she could help it – guilt.

Healthy Chinese turned out to be a source of happiness and guilt. "This tastes terrible," Papi complained.

"No, it's not! It's good!" Daniel was determinedly trying to get through a plate of steamed broccoli and brown rice, but the expression on his face was a lot like the one he wore when he headed to the gym – grave, almost mournful, but aware that this was the only way to keep up necessary appearances. "Seriously, you just have to get used to it."

"Daniel, you eat gourmet cuisine all the time," Betty said. "How are you keeping this down?"

"It's delici – oh, are we being honest about it? Okay." Folding his arms, Daniel still would only back down far enough to say, "I guess it's bland."

Betty hastily said, "We're not blaming you! I'm the one who told you to bring it over."

"I just figured we had to make the best of it, is all." And Daniel looked so virtuous – or his best version of virtuous, which frankly was not that good – that Betty had to burst into laughter, while at the same time wishing she had told him to sneak in a carton of something tastier for the two of them to share after Dad had gone to bed.

After dinner was done, she started tossing stuff in the trash; Daniel went to help her, but was distracted by something colorful in one corner. "Hey, what's this? Are these – finger puppets?"

Betty said, "They're telenovela characters," before realizing that really didn't make it any less bewildering.

"Justin and Austin made them," Dad explained as Betty kept working. "To catch me up on my stories I missed. Like 'Quiereme Tonto' – that's a new one. So good."

_Poor Daniel_, she thought. _He missed his chance to get away. _

Sure enough, her father launched into the saga of Guillermo and Julieta whether Daniel cared or not. She kept at the cleanup; fortunately, take-out made that easy.

Her phone, resting on one of the kitchen counters, chimed to inform her of a new message. Probably Justin texting her about something – but no. The email was from the main receptionist at THE VILLAGE VOICE. They'd made friends when Betty applied there (a couple hours before her fateful trip to Meade) and stayed in touch. Again, no openings there currently – but she suspected one of their assistant editors was interviewing for another position elsewhere. If he left, the vacancy would be a perfect fit for her …

Possibilities. Uncertainties. New directions. Old loyalties. Once again, the tightrope wavered beneath her feet –

"_The Beautiful Betty has reached the halfway point of the arena!" Ringmaster Daniel called from the floor below. "But this is the most dangerous part of her performance – the part where most tightrope walkers plunge to their deaths!" Then he frowned, and despite the top hat, red coat and megaphone, seemed like himself again. "Jeez, Betty, be careful!" _

"_She's so toast," said Amanda from her place amid the trained dog act. Her sparkly costume glittered brilliantly blue. "I give her another 30 seconds." _

_Marc, in harlequin clown garb, shook his head. "10 seconds. Tops." _

_Betty tried to keep going, just putting one foot in front of the other; that was all she had to do, until she reached the end. _

_Then she looked in front of her, and the tightrope seemed to stretch on forever – _

Betty shut the phone off, refusing to look at it again through the night. But all those different directions and emotions continued to tug at her, and balance seemed a long way off.

In the living room, she heard Papi laughing; curious, she walked out to see that Daniel had commandeered the finger puppet theater, which was now CSI: Miami theater. "So this man was murdered while he was watering his yard?" said the little finger puppet, in what Daniel apparently considered to be a girl's voice. The thumb puppet replied, "I guess you could say _he got hosed_." She did her best version of the _yee-eeah!_ that preceded the credits; itwasn't very good, but it made her father laugh some more, and Daniel stuck his head around the theater, grinning. "I can't think of any way to do the sunglasses thing with finger puppets."

"I can imagine it," Dad insisted.

"C'mon, Betty, give it a try." Daniel looked up at her hopefully. "That way I won't have to do the girl voice again."

"When you put it that way." She sat on the floor beside him, their legs touching; getting her hand into the theater with his meant leaning almost on top of him, but Daniel didn't seem to mind. He briefly took her hand in his to slide the little puppet on – really, his hand seemed to linger there a little longer than necessary, but maybe the puppet was crooked or something. Then she had to try to think of a setup that would be easy. "Hmmm. Oh, okay! You mean this man was killed during garbage pickup?"

Daniel gave her a worried look behind the theater, so she mouthed the key words until he got it. "Oh! I guess that means they _wasted _him."

She did the _yeee-eeeah!_ again. It was better this time. Maybe because it was a little more like a scream, and she felt more like screaming.

Why did her father have to get ill? Why did the new job possibilities all have to be so tempting? Why did Daniel have to be so sweet and generous and adorable just when she was thinking of leaving MODE?

In the finger puppet voice, she said, "So this woman died when she tumbled from the high wire in the middle of a tightrope act?"

"I guess you could say the act _fell flat_." Daniel grinned, clearly glad to have thought of that one himself. "Hey, where's the scream?"

Betty opened her mouth, but nothing came out. As he looked at her, Daniel's expression shifted from amused to concerned, and she shook her head quickly, knowing he would understand – _not in front of my dad._ So he said nothing, but he patted her arm with his free hand. Which only made things worse, but he couldn't have known it.

"No need to make yourself hoarse by yelling all night, _mija_." The sound of her father's recliner snapping back into upright position made Betty shake off her puppet and emerge; he was already slowly rising – too slowly, but by himself, which was good. "I'm ready for bed. Before 9 p.m.! I've got to get well soon or I'm never going to catch up on my shows."

Something occurred to Betty then – something they hadn't done that day. "Dad, don't you want to take a shower?" Normally her father was almost fastidious in his habits; even today, he'd spent several minutes combing his hair just as he wanted it.

Papi hesitated. "Don't worry about it. I'm fine."

She realized that he didn't feel strong enough to take a shower alone, and wanted to spare her the task of helping him wash. Which was ridiculous – if he needed help, she would help him, and there was no question of that ever – and yet the thought of bathing her adult father made her quail inside. It probably wasn't her dad's idea of a great time either.

Daniel said, "Hey, if you just want somebody to spot you, I don't mind."

"You sure, bossman?" Papi seemed to find this suggestion mostly amusing – but also welcome.

"Hey, you've read the tabloids." Daniel gave them both his most wolfish grin. "It's not a Saturday night until I've gotten someone naked."

Her father started laughing harder than he had all day, and Daniel began steering him toward the stairs without any other instructions. Betty simply watched them go, talking among themselves, obviously thinking nothing more of it than either would have thought of taking a shower in a men's locker room.

Neither of them glanced back at her, and she was grateful, because she couldn't imagine what her face must have looked like. The feeling taking her over was almost indescribable – as if she'd never really known Daniel Meade until that moment.

**oooooo**

"So, Daniel, Betty says you're buying an apartment," Mr. Suarez called from within the shower stall. "Seen some pretty snazzy places, I hear."

"Yeah, but nothing that impressed Betty."

"Are you kidding? She loved them. But what counts is what you're looking for."

She had loved them. But she hadn't seen herself in them.

Daniel caught himself, sensing as he hadn't before that it was – well – wrong to expect Betty to look at his apartments the same way he did. Yes, he wanted her … was pretty sure he wanted something really meaningful for the two of them … but like Mom had said: _Cart. Horse. _

Betty didn't want a fixer-upper project of a guy any more than she'd like a fixer-upper project of a house. Didn't she have enough responsibilities already? Managing her career, helping care for her sick father, balancing time in Manhattan versus time in Queens: The last thing she needed was responsibility for Daniel's decisions too. Having sky-high expectations for their relationship before they'd even gotten started – that just set them up to have way too far to fall.

He looked at the foggy version of himself in the steam-clouded mirror, as a way of getting himself to buck up and take things one step at a time. If he wanted Betty, he had to be the guy who would deserve her. That guy would be an adult. He would be realistic about taking their relationship one step at a time. He'd shoulder some responsibilities for her. He would take away from her burdens, not add to them.

And he'd pick out his own damn home.

"I guess I'm still not sure what I'm looking for," Daniel admitted. He'd been looking at the apartments through Betty-tinted glasses, so eager to see what she'd be dazzled by that he had hardly assessed them for himself. "Room to grow into, definitely. A place for a long time, not just a few years. Maybe I'll know it when I find it."

"Trust your instincts." Everything smelled like soap now, and it was obvious that getting clean had caused a definite improvement in Mr. Suarez's spirits. "If you put love into a place – if you fill it with the people you care about – it becomes the home you always wanted. That's all that counts." He paused before adding, "Well. That and closet space."

Once Mr. Suarez's shower was finished, Daniel got him wrapped up and back to his room, where he was assured that putting on pajamas did not require his assistance. He went back down the stairs to inform Betty that her father was ready for her to tell him goodnight, but she was no longer in the front room. Daniel found her standing on a stepstool in the kitchen, where she was putting up some of the glasses they'd used – already washed and dried, by her, one more task he should've helped with. "Hey," he said. "Your dad's about ready for bed. Want to tuck him in?"

Betty looked over her shoulder at him – and the tenderness he saw there was so astonishing he almost forgot to be delighted. "You gave my dad a shower."

"Hardly." He hadn't thought twice about it. "I just hung around and made sure he was okay."

"Which is what Bobby and Justin do for him when they're here. What Elena can do when she gets back. But tonight it would've been me, and I just – I wasn't ready for him to need me that much."

The guilt on her face nearly killed him. Daniel crossed to her in a couple of steps and put his hand on her shoulder. "Hey. You're, like, the best daughter in the world. You know this. On top of being the best friend, the best writer – the best CSI: Miami screamer in the world – "

Betty's arms went around his neck, and she hugged him so tightly that he almost couldn't breathe.

_I don't know where this is coming from, but I'm going with it. _Daniel wrapped his arms around her waist and just held onto her.

"It's a lot," she said. With the stepstool beneath her feet, they were almost the same height, and her face fit into the curve of his neck. Just the warmth of her breath against his skin made him feel slightly dizzy. "Everything that's going on – it just gets to be a lot, sometimes. So thanks for being awesome."

"You're the awesome one, Betty. We wouldn't all lean on you so much if you weren't so damn great at everything." He breathed in the scent of her and closed his eyes.

When she finally leaned back from him, they faced one another – her dark eyes looking deeply into his, her warm hands braced against the skin of his neck – and the moment stretched longer than he would have expected. Just when Daniel was starting to wonder if this really was the right moment to kiss her, she let go and stepped down. "You're really letting your tabloid readers down, you know," she said. "A Saturday night in Queens?"

"I'll make up for it soon," he promised. "What are you doing next Thursday? I have some scandals to create."

She laughed so hard that he decided not tell her that he wasn't totally joking.

**oooooo**

The first phone calls on Saturday night, Justin ignored. He wasn't going to speak one word to Austin until he knew precisely what it was he wanted to say.

On Sunday the calls tapered off, which was satisfying, then infuriating. Around the time Justin was wondering if he even had a real relationship to be in the balance, Austin finally called again, and he picked up. "Okay," he said instead of hello. "Let's do this."

Austin pled, "Justin, please, you know I love you. Just you. That thing with Lily – that was just – "

"She's your beard." Justin had once thought that concept was part of gay history, like Stonewall and Judy Garland. But no, apparently the whole idea of dating a girl just to hide the fact you were gay was still alive and well. "Does Lily know that's all it is? Is she helping you hide me?"

"Lily doesn't know – but it's not like we make out or anything. I'd never cheat on you, Justin. I tell Lily that Jesus wouldn't want us to rush things. Besides, she's not hiding you. She's hiding me," Austin said fiercely. "If my parents ever knew – it wouldn't be good."

"You were all, let's hold hands! Let's go to the movies together! Why won't you dance with me at your mom's wedding! How come you were pressuring me to be out and tell the truth when you're still in the closet?"

"Because it was okay for you!" Austin was shouting now. "It was so freakin' obvious that your family knew and they didn't care, and you were just … beating yourself up for no reason."

Was that true? Justin decided it was. He wasn't sure that fixed anything, though.

Austin continued, his voice lower, "If my family knew about me, trust me, that's not how it would go. Some secrets have a reason, Justin."

Why did this have to get difficult again so quickly? After the torturous process of figuring out that he really did want to be with Austin, of accepting that he was going to have to live his whole life with the extra burdens gay men had to handle, and the terror leading up to that dance at the wedding, Justin had thought he'd be free and clear of angst for a while. Didn't he deserve that? But of course, love wasn't that easy, not ever, for anybody.

And now that he thought about it, there had always been signs. He should have expected to meet the Starkeys before now. He should have heard Austin talk about his own coming out experiences. And he should've remembered that, the day after their astonishing first kiss, Austin had chosen to skip acting class. He'd been afraid – Justin had always realized that, but why hadn't he thought it through more? Why hadn't he realized that Austin's bravery about being out was all about the Suarez family, not at all about his own?

From downstairs, Mom called, "Hey, Justin! Bobby's getting the burgers started! How d'ya want yours?"

He covered the receiver and said, "Hello, well done! You read the article in NEW YORK. Charred is in!"

"Am I interrupting?" This was a fairly caustic question from Austin at any time, but especially now, when it was still crystal clear to Justin precisely who had goofed up here.

"Listen to me," Justin said, rising from the quilt-covered spare bed he slept in over at Bobby's. He envisioned Austin's face in front of him – those beautiful eyes, the downy hair – and tried to feel the love more than the anger as he spoke. "It's not my place to tell you whether or not to come out to your parents. That's between you and them, and yeah – I know not everybody's as cool as my mom."

From downstairs, he could hear her getting ready for their little backyard cookout – opening bags of chips, shutting the fridge door – and once again felt fully grateful that he was born to Hilda Suarez.

"I knew you'd get it," Austin said, audibly relieved.

"Hold it. If you think this means you're off the hook, you're wrong." Justin wanted to let him off the hook – wanted to look away from all this mess and focus on the love they had for each other – but he was determined to do the right thing. "You having a fake girlfriend is disrespectful to me. Also, it's pretty disrespectful to Lily. I mean, she's our friend. She deserves to be with somebody who actually likes her, you know? And if you're telling her you won't hook up with her because of Jesus, then that's kind of disrespectful to Him, too, and I'm_ so_ not walking beside you while you might get struck by lightning."

"You want me to break up with her?"

Justin said, "I want you to be honest with her. And more than anything, you have to be honest with me. Just because you have to lie to your parents doesn't make it okay for you to lie to other people in your life that you care about."

"You don't know how easy you have it."

"I'm not wrong about this."

"You never lied to anybody? You never pretended to like a girl?"

Only a month or so ago, Justin had sat across from Marc in the MODE closet and sworn he liked Lily himself. He winced at the memory. "Back then, I was mostly lying to myself."

"You're not even trying to understand!"

"I do understand! But you have to break up with Lily! Until you do –" Justin swallowed hard. "—don't call me back."

He hoped Austin would say, _yes, of course, you're right, I'll do it_. He feared Austin would say, _you're not worth it. _

Instead, Austin simply hung up.

For a few seconds, Justin sat there, sick with fear; he hadn't known how badly he didn't want to lose Austin until the moment he first realized it could actually happen.

Then his mother called him and he went downstairs, to pretend he was really psyched about hamburgers.

**oooooo**

Amanda and Marc saw each other remarkably seldom, for roommates; he got up early to go the gym every day and went out most nights, while she slept late, shopped in the afternoons and went out most nights, but to different clubs, ones where the guys might look at her for a change. Even though she was partying fewer nights now that she was waiting for Tyler, sitting at home in hopes of seeing Marc on Sunday night had done no good.

So, Monday morning, she tried to wake up early – and failed, but she was able to hurry to the MODE offices and get there just about the time that Marc usually arrived. Sure enough, in the lobby, as she ran in the door, she saw him headed to the elevator; it was hard to tell at that distance, but she was pretty sure he was the only guy at MODE on-trend enough to wear a magenta shirt.

"Marc!" she called as she hurried toward him, glad that running was possible in so, so hot gladiator sandals. "Wait up!"

He paused and stared at her as she hurried to his side, but he held the elevator. They were the only two MODE staffers in the car; to judge by the general dishevelment and Pabst Blue Ribbon smell of the other guys, most of them were from PLAYER. This made her feel as if she had enough privacy to talk. "So, what's the sitch?" She beamed up at Marc as she said it.

"The – sitch?"

Amanda wrinkled her nose. "It's dated, isn't it? We need new slang. What about 'deets'? Is that over yet?"

"Not quite, but – what are you talking about?"

"Styling the photo shoots." Casually she tossed her hair, as if she'd never suggested that the idea of working for MODE again was anything but delightful to her. "What's on today?"

Marc's mouth quirked in an unwilling smile. "You, lucky ducky, get to drape clothes on or around the body of one Miss Carey Mulligan!"

"Oh, my God, that's so awesome." Carey Mulligan was hot, hot, hot, and she also had made some serious fashion missteps. After she wore that dress with all the keys hung on it? No doubt girlfriend was looking for a new stylist, like, now. Amanda kept smiling up at Marc, totally unbothered, as she said, "You know, you didn't have to crawl to me for help. You should've just said you needed my fashion eye here. That MODE was going off the rails without me. I would've understood."

Marc made a little exasperated sound, but she could see him fighting the smile. He said only, "You're welcome."

The elevator stopped at their floor. Marc held out his arm, and Amanda latched onto it, and they power-walked through the Tube together, more glorious than ever before. As they passed Megan, Amanda said, "Oooh, that skirt is bright. Is that a leftover tablecloth from your Cinco de Mayo party?"

"Dee-lish," Marc purred in her ear as they left Megan sputtering in their wake.

Had the peons here believed they could keep her down for long? Too bad, Amanda decided. The queen bee was back in the hive.

"By the way," she whispered, "how much does this gig pay?"

"A buck an hour more than the receptionist job."

Oh, well. You couldn't expect to take over the whole world in a day. As Amanda released Marc to go to his office, she said, "Oh, and Marc?" When he glanced back at her, she said, "You're my favorite accessory too."

Marc's smile told her all the stuff they couldn't say, and didn't have to.

Now, to go explain to Carey Mulligan than pixie cuts were of the devil …

**oooooo**

Betty wasn't surprised to get the text message inviting her to spend yet another lunch hour looking at one of Daniel's apartments, this one on the Upper West Side. This time, though, she didn't feel harried or guilty – just pleased.

Daniel often spoke more truth than he knew, and he'd done that when he told her that people leaned on her because she excelled at so much. Betty realized that she was a good daughter, because only a good daughter would struggle so hard to make a tough situation work, and even good daughters might flail a little the first time "bathing a parent" came up. She was a good journalist, because only good journalists had to balance their current job against so many potential offers. She was a good friend, because she knew she valued Daniel for all the things he did, whether they were as big as staying with her on the might of Papi's heart attack or as small as being willing to play finger puppets or eat "healthy" Chinese.

Yes, Betty had a lot going on in her life at the moment. But that was because she had so many meaningful relationships and professional opportunities. There were worse problems to handle, really.

She imagined herself in the circus once more …

_The horns blew and the cymbals crashed as Betty reached the other end of the high wire. As the audience broke into rapturous cheers and applause, Ringmaster Daniel called out, "Isn't she amazing, ladies and gentlemen? The one, the only – Betty!" _

_And they were all clapping – her family in the stands, the people she knew at MODE, everyone – _

And daydreaming was a really bad reason to miss your subway stop, she decided as she dove for the closing doors.

The new building was in the upper 70s, and it had clearly been built about 80 years ago but kept reasonably current. There was a doorman, but one who seemed like a easygoing, regular guy, and the lobby was a simple one with mailboxes and a few chairs, no more. Betty grinned in pleasure as she saw that the elevator hadn't been updated; an operator still worked there (putting himself through Parsons, he said) to close the golden, cage-like doors and steer people to their proper floors.

When she reached the apartment, she called the first thing on her mind: "You said not to bring sandwiches, so I didn't. Please tell me that wasn't a typo!"

"Nope, I got them myself," Daniel said as he let her in. "Plus a cookie. This one's for you."

Betty grinned at him, then was distracted by the apartment. It wasn't as grandiose as either of the ones she'd seen before – neither as icily formal as the first or as hip and trendy as the second. But the ceilings were a nice height, and the floors were shining hardwood. There didn't seem to be a dining room, but the kitchen was big enough to be a true eat-in, and came furnished with the kind of appliances that looked more like they were meant to be used rather than merely showed off.

Without any great hall or loft space like before, she soon found herself exploring room to room. "Oooh," she said. "Built-in bookshelves. This could be a home office, or a library – Daniel, are you thinking about getting this one?" She had a thing about built-in bookshelves.

"Actually, I put in an offer this morning."

Betty backtracked so she could gawp at him through the doorway. "You mean, you've already bought it?"

"Assuming they accept my offer … but I didn't lowball them, so I think they will. Though with Manhattan real estate, you never really know until you get the keys." He smiled as he saw her surprise. "I figured I should probably pick out my own home and let you enjoy your lunch in peace. Though then I couldn't wait to show it to you, so that kind of didn't work out – but from now on, if we do lunch, it'll be more like Café Un Deux Trois, less like paper-bagging it."

"Daniel, I_ love_ it. This place is terrific!" She hurried through, checking out the rest of the rooms – two real bedrooms, a little cubby that could be a guest room if the guest was thin … or maybe it could be a nursery, though surely Daniel Meade wasn't thinking that far ahead. Or was he? This apartment, more than either of the first two he'd shown her, felt like a lifelong home. Even the living room had human dimensions, even if it did have a nice view from the windows and a simple brick fireplace. As she walked up to it, Daniel following her, she said, "Does it work?"

"They're not sure. Nobody's tried it in a while. Come winter, I think I'll give it a go – and if I show up for work looking like a chimney sweep, you'll know why."

The suggestion that she'd be at MODE in the wintertime no longer threw Betty. Daniel wasn't pressuring her to stay; he didn't even know she was considering the move, and she was okay with that for now. When the time came, whether it was sooner or later, she'd talk to him about it. After all, he'd always encouraged her before when she'd wanted something bigger or better than MODE – why should now be any different?

Well. It was different, and she wasn't quite sure how – parting from him had never seemed as heartbreaking before – but they'd be okay. She trusted Daniel. They'd figure it out.

As they ate their sandwiches at his new hearth, Betty said, "I'm so glad you picked this one. It has character – and not like it's trying too hard, you know?"

"It's authentic." He gave her an affectionate glance. "I appreciate authenticity more than I used to."

"Honestly, I'm kind of jealous," she admitted. "If I were ever going to be able to buy a place in Manhattan, this is exactly what I'd want for my home."

"Really? That's – wow." Daniel started laughing.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing. Just reminding myself that I can worry too much about the wrong stuff sometimes. Your dad told me, when it came to buying a place, I should trust my instincts. And he was right."

Daniel looked awfully satisfied with himself at that moment, but Betty figured that was natural. He'd just bought a fantastic apartment, which was a major life step. She said, "You should be proud of yourself. You had a goal, you made your own decisions, and the result is ... amazing."

"Now I just have to do the same for the rest of my goals." The smile he gave her made her feel flushed, for some reason. Maybe she was imagining them sitting by the fire a little too vividly. "Take each one step by step."

Betty joked, "So, when do you take the next big step?"

"Won't be long now," he said, which made her wonder exactly what he was thinking of. But she was distracted when he reached into the paper bag. "As promised – one chocolate-chip cookie. For you."

"Let's split this one too." They each took hold of one end, and their eyes met just as the cookie snapped.

That moment stayed with Betty for the rest of the day – as she finished up revisions to her latest piece, answered all the encouraging emails she'd gotten from contacts, and made her way home to change.

Why should she be all gooey about Daniel sharing a cookie with her? That didn't make any sense.

Well. He_ was _a good-looking guy. It wasn't like she'd never noticed before. As an average heterosexual female, it made sense that she'd like having a man like Daniel buy her sweets and act flirty, even if he didn't meant anything by it.

But Daniel had done tons of stuff for her before without her getting, well, silly about it. He'd bought her plane tickets to Mexico! Made sure she walked the runway during Fashion Week! Broken down a door in an attempt to save her from a fire!

Somehow that list wasn't helping clear her head.

_It's just a sign I haven't been paying enough attention to my love life lately_, Betty decided as she walked into her Tae Kwon Do dojo, tightening the white belt around her waist. _Since that whole thing with Nelson, I haven't even thought about going out. Yeah, it wasn't that long ago, but maybe I'm a little lonelier than I realized. I should work on that. _

One more thing to do – but that was all right. Betty trusted herself not to lose her balance.

"Betty?" said the voice behind her. "What – are you taking lessons here too?"

She knew who it was even before she turned around. "Henry!"

END

Tune in next time for "Lucky Star."

_Songs From This Episode: "Tightrope," Janelle Monae; "What About Everything," Carbon Leaf; and "Remedy," Little Boots._


	6. Lucky Star, Part One

"Henry?"

Betty gaped at her ex-boyfriend – standing, like her, in the middle of the Tae Kwon Do dojo, wearing a white gi – until someone's foot caught her in the side and knocked her flat on her face.

"Hey!" Henry said, glaring at the sparring pair nearby as he knelt by Betty's side. "Watch it!"

"Sorry!" the fighter in question said. He leaned over her too. "I swung wide. But you need to give the ring a wider berth."

"I realize that. Sorry. I'm new at this – and I'm fine." Betty sat up, pulling her gi back into place and straightening her glasses. She was more embarrassed than hurt; the kick had only just grazed her, and she'd landed on soft padding. That made the fall way less ouchy than the fact that she'd been caught so off-guard because she was staring at her ex.

It wasn't that she was still crushed out on him. In those last days before Hilda's wedding, she'd wanted their old flame to flare bright again – but she'd realized it had burned out for good. But he remained her first real love; seeing him again, unsuspecting – well, it was the kind of thing that made a girl bust her ass at Tae Kwon Do.

Henry helped her to her feet. "Crazy, that we both decided to take martial arts at the same time, huh? Samantha made me promise; she's nervous about the big city."

"You're back in New York already? Wow. But I guess it's been a month now." Somehow it seemed like more time had passed.

"And I guess you're moving to London soon?"

Disappointment ached within her, an old injury that hadn't yet completely healed and would always leave a small scar. "Actually, I'm staying here after all."

Henry's grin was so sincere that she should have found it comforting, but didn't. "Got a better offer, huh?"

"My dad's been ill. It wasn't the right time to make the move."

"Oh. Oh, well. I'm sorry, Betty. That's awful. I hope he's okay."

"Doing better." She reflected on something he'd said earlier. "Samantha's nervous about the big city, huh? And who is this Samantha?"

"New girlfriend." His bashful smile used to make her melt; it was still pretty cute. "I saw her buying a traveler's guide to New York in the bookstore, and I offered some advice. Turned out she was moving here for grad school. Columbia, political science. It's pretty new for us, but – you know, she's great. You'd like her."

"I'm sure," Betty said, though after Charlie she wasn't sure whether Henry's taste in women was always as good as it had been when it came to her. "That's fantastic."

Henry brightened yet further; she realized he hadn't been certain whether she'd be happy for his new relationship. Honestly, Betty thought, if somebody had asked her a day ago if she could handle seeing Henry with someone else, she wouldn't have known the answer. Now she did, and it was a relief. He'd been such a big part of her life, and they really did get along. It was good to know that, down the line, they could truly be friends.

And yet there was this weird hollow feeling inside – this emptiness where love ought to have been, this need to have that filled –

"So!" Betty gave him her best smile. "You must be living in this neighborhood too, huh? Big city, small world."

"Oh, no. I'm down in Brooklyn. But this is really close to my little boy. Charlie and Doug got a place about five blocks away, so this way, I can run by and visit just before or after class. Works out perfectly."

"Doug?"

"Charlie's new husband."

Charlie had somebody. Charlie, who had serious fidelity issues. Charlie, who couldn't have found it easy to date with a small child in the house.

The hollow feeling got larger, and a whole lot more annoying.

And for some reason, it was Daniel that Betty wanted to tell.

**oooooo**

"Am I crazy?" Betty said the next morning as she and Daniel walked through the tube, paper coffee cups in hand. "I mean, why should I care if Charlie's married? Why should I care if Henry's dating someone, if I'm not jealous?"

"You're definitely not jealous?" Daniel kept getting stuck on this point. "You're absolutely sure that you're not, uh, drawn to him anymore?"

"No. Well, I mean, I'll always have a soft spot for him, probably, but that's all it is."

"A soft spot?" Daniel's concern only seemed to deepen. "Like, if you see him all the time in Tae Kwon Do, kind of, you know, sweaty and macho and stuff, that's not going to affect you?"

"He's usually in the earlier class, and no." Betty sipped her coffee as they reached the reception desk. "I just wish I understood why it was affecting me like this."

Daniel apparently wasn't following her line of thought at all. "You know, I've thought about taking up martial arts. Maybe I ought to give it a try."

"Oh, please. You know that every time somebody hits you in the face, you tear up." With one finger, she tapped the bridge of Daniel's super-sensitive nose.

"I should never have told you that." A faint blush tinted his fair cheeks. Stubbornly, Daniel insisted, "I could do Tae Kwon Do if Henry could."

It was almost as though Daniel were, well … jealous of Henry. Probably he was pretending to be, to give her spirits a lift. Which was totally sweet of him – totally Daniel. The problem was that it did give her spirits a lift. Way too much of a lift, given that this was her best friend, and he was only playacting.

_I'm just lonely_, she reminded herself, as she'd had to do a few times since that flirty afternoon at Daniel's new apartment. _I want someone in my life again. That's natural. Daniel's the only hot guy around at the moment, so we're sort of – well, we're flirting a little, but it doesn't mean anything. It's simply – practice! We're practicing on each other. Which is fine. Soon we'll move on. _

But that felt a little weird too …

"Attention, everyone!" Claire's voice rang through the MODE offices as she strode into the main area. People still chattered in the distance, of course, but everyone in the immediate vicinity quieted and looked at her. This didn't seem to be enough for Claire, so she called out, even louder, "This is about an exclusive party, and if you show up in the next thirty seconds, you might be invited!"

The entire MODE staff didn't appear in thirty seconds. It only took them ten.

"That's better." Claire smiled at the entire staff – even Wilhelmina, who stood in the back next to the ever faithful, or still brainwashed, Marc. "As some of you may know, HOT FLASH is celebrating a benefit for the American Heart Association this Thursday night. However, I've decided to step it up a notch – more press, more champagne and more invitations – because I think we now have an attraction that will draw more attention to the gala than ever before. My old friend Bubba Rothschild has decided to lend us something to serve as the centerpiece of the entire event – the Heart of Kashmir."

"Shut up!" Betty said, though it was almost drowned out by all the murmurs around her.

"Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod." Amanda gave a theatrical little shiver.

"Can we wear it?" someone cried. "Or at least touch it?"

"The Heart of Kashmir?" Daniel frowned, and then his blue eyes lit up. How had she never noticed how blue his eyes were before? "Wait, I saw this on 'Mythbusters' one time. This is the thing that's like the opposite of the Hope Diamond, right?"

"One of the world's biggest rubies," Betty said, nodding. "There are all these legends about it, and it's supposed to give everyone who sees it the best luck in the world."

"Particularly luck in love," Marc said, a slightly dreamy glint on his eyes for the instant it took him to look snide and cynical again. "If you believe in that kind of thing." But his fingers were already tugging at his turquoise silk bow tie, as if imagining himself putting on formalwear for the event.

"I remember reading about the Heart of Kashmir when I was a kid." Betty still couldn't quite believe she was really going to get to see the stone for herself; it was a little like sighting Nessie, or meeting Rumpelstilskin – a childhood myth come true. "Dan Brown's supposed to be writing a book about it being tied to the Illuminati or something."

When the hubbub had died down a bit, Claire continued. "Nobody's wearing it, because it's going to remain in an extremely secure display. But the fundraising gala is now officially one of the events of the season. Among other things, I need to arrange for more decoration – and all of you are extremely decorative. So I've got invitations to give out to the youngest, thinnest, most beautiful and best. Prove you're one of them, and I'll deal you in. Get to me via email by noon today."

As a small stampede toward computers began for those unfortunates who didn't have their smartphones in hand, Daniel said, "So. Thursday night – "

"I've got to email your mom," Betty said. "I'll catch you in your office in a minute, okay?" She dashed off, wishing she'd had her phone with her, because she had to be at this thing.

Luck in love – well, that was nice to dream about. Something she wanted more of in her life. But that wasn't the point.

The point was that this was now the networking event of the year.

Yes, she'd lost London, but that would sting a lot less when she finally had her dream job – and when she didn't have to feel like dirt for hiding her job quest from Daniel any longer.

**oooooo**

_This is it_, Daniel decided. _I'm asking her today. _

Of course, he'd tried to ask Betty to be his date for the gala right away, but she'd dashed off. It was sort of hilarious how she thought she'd have to compete with the others for a ticket, but that was just one of her countless endearing qualities – the way she took almost nothing he or his family gave her for granted.

Honestly, he should have thought of it before – an elegant party, and on a weeknight when she wouldn't feel obligated to be in Queens – but before this, the HOT FLASH event had seemed more like a work function than something glittering and glamorous. About as romantic as asking Betty to stay after hours to discuss the merits of moving the magazine to a four-column grid.

Though staying after hours with Betty, for any reason, sounded pretty good –

"That went over even better than I'd anticipated," Mom said as she sidled up to him. "It was like throwing chum in shark-infested waters."

"How did you talk Bubba into it?"

"I reminded him that we still have our vacation photos from that summer in Ibiza." His mother arched one eyebrow, reminding him that the busty brunette who had accompanied Bubba that year had not been entirely convincing when she claimed to be his personal acupuncturist. "It's not much notice, but I dare say we'll make even more of a splash that way. People will be in a frenzy to get invitations. I've already convinced the Met to move us to a bigger venue – wait until you hear this – "

"My, my, Claire." Wilhelmina slinked up to them, sensationally gorgeous as ever in a sheath dress and jacket of deep, almost metallic green. Though Daniel figured he would always be faintly embarrassed that he'd once kissed her, he didn't particularly regret it, either: Even at her most evil, Wilhelmina had it going on. "You finally figured out how to get someone to attend one of your menopausal soirees: bribery. Well-played."

Mom folded her arms. "You do realize you're invited? I mean, obviously, in the spirit of mutual loathing, but I have to admit, you have a knack for making headlines. We'll get a full half hour on Fashion TV devoted to whether or not we'll rip each other's hair out. Though I draw the line at actually staging it."

"You haven't got that much hair left to lose," Wilhelmina said, but for a moment her face looked almost friendly. It was odd to realize that she sometimes engaged in verbal sparring just for fun. But the moment passed as soon as it had risen. Oddly formal, Wilhelmina continued, "I'm afraid I'll be out of town tomorrow and Thursday – and out of the office as well, of course. Sorry for the late notice. A last-minute family commitment. Excuse me."

With that, Wilhelmina stalked off. Mom murmured in his ear, "Do you believe she's really got a 'family commitment'?"

"Not unless she's committed to killing one of them." Daniel thought it over. "Or all of them."

"We'll have to find out more about that." Mom looked pensive a moment longer, then obviously put it aside. "All right. I've got to invite some other Meade editors to this thing – including Sofia Reyes, I'm afraid."

"That's okay," Daniel said as he turned for his office. "I won't even notice she's there."

It was more than braggadocio. If Betty was on his arm – if this Thursday were actually going to be their first date – Daniel didn't think he'd be able to see any other woman in the room.

So how was he going to do this?

As he reviewed the Book that morning, Daniel basically came up with scenarios between articles:

_Smooth, sophisticated, he strolls into her office. Megan's conveniently out. Betty seems wistful and he asks why. She admits that the gala would be perfect if only she had a date – and then he leans across the desk, covers her hand with his and says he'd like nothing more than to be there with her – _

_They're laughing over something – he has no idea what, but it's hilarious – and Betty says she always has so much fun with him. So it's easy, even natural, for him to say that then they should have fun together at the gala. The way her eyes light up tell him she knows this is about going as so much more than friends – _

_They both bend over the light table, even though neither of them usually reviews photos there, and their faces and hands are so close they almost touch. Daniel can whisper into her ear that he wants to dance with her at the gala, that the Heart of Kashmir would bring them together anyway –_

"Daniel?" Betty stood in the doorway of his office, her lips quirked in an unwilling smile. "Did I catch you daydreaming?"

He realized he was staring out the window with a red wax pencil in his mouth and a couple of spare post-its on his fingers. "Mmmph." Then he snatched the pencil from his mouth. "Uh, yeah. Don't tell."

With exaggerated satisfaction, she declared, "Your secrets are always safe with me."

How many secrets had she kept for him, over the years? Despite his embarrassment, Daniel found himself smiling back. "Of course."

Betty came forward, almost conspiratorial. She looked so pretty today – red had always been a good color on her, even in the form of crocheted sweater vests – and this dress flowed over her curves rather invitingly. "Listen," she said, glancing backwards as if afraid someone might overhear. "Your mom said of course I was invited. But she didn't say if there was a plus-one included. Am I allowed to bring someone?"

At first his heart plummeted. Then he wondered if maybe she meant to ask him, which to his surprise seemed even more awesome than asking her himself; that way, he'd know the answer for sure. Cautiously, Daniel said, "Is there someone in particular you're thinking of?"

"No," she said, eliminating the best- and worst-case scenarios at once. "I just – I need to get out more, and I thought maybe I should try to scare up a date. You know?"

Now or never. Daniel stood, sticking the post-its onto the desk in what he hoped was a suave motion, or at least an unnoticeable one. "Well, tell you what – let's go together."

Betty's eyes widened slightly. "Together?"

"You and me. Be my date Thursday night."

She didn't say yes. She didn't say no. But she laughed a little. "Is this payback for my making you be my date to Hilda's wedding?"

Obviously he was going to have to close the gap between "date" as in, "Good friend I can go with to something" to "date" as in, "Person I can make out with at the next possible opportunity."

He stepped around the desk, trying to play it cool – but not too cool – oh, damn it. "Not payback. I'd really like to go with you, Betty. If you'd like to go with me."

Betty glanced away, as if bashful – her lips were slightly parted, and Daniel realized she still wasn't sure what to think. Well, if he had to kiss her to make his point – you know, if sweeping her off her feet here and now was absolutely necessary –

And then Amanda burst in.

"Daniel! You owe me a favor," she announced as she skittered toward his desk on high heels. "Oh, hey, Betty."

"Why do I owe you a favor?" Daniel said. He wouldn't normally have argued one way or the other, but dammit, why did Amanda have to interrupt now?

Amanda crossed her arms. "Because I got your wiener working again after you left your widower mourning thing, remember?"

Oh, God, why had he ever asked her? Betty didn't look thrilled about the reminder, and Daniel felt like shriveling up – which came uncomfortably close to the subject, so he tried to get it over with as soon as possible. "Okay, okay! What am I doing for you?"

"You're taking Penelope Kerr to the HOT FLASH gala at the Met."

This could not be happening. "But – Betty and I – "

Amanda held up her palm in the classic "talk to the hand" gesture. "This is bigger than your friend-date bullcrap, okay? Penelope Kerr wants to go with you, and if you go with her, she'll go with me, and seeing as how you owe me for service to your manparts, you're going to go with her."

Betty frowned and said, "Wait, what? I'm not following you." Daniel felt some small measure of relief that he wasn't the only one confused here. "Who is Penelope Kerr?"

"She used to be on my dad's soap. Remember, she was the neurosurgeon who was torn between the chief of surgery and the hot nightclub manager who helped her start a secret career as a pop star on the side? Well, she's got an album coming out next month, and it's getting some buzz, and now she wants a stylist. Dad asked her to work with me, and she's thinking about it." Amanda looked almost shy for a moment. "If I got a real client – it would be a big thing for me. Like, my break, maybe. And if I get her an invitation to one of the biggest events in New York, plus a date who guarantees her plenty of press coverage – I think she'll work with me. Oh, come on, please?"

"Daniel, you have to." Betty's face had that determined-good-sense look, the one that meant he'd never shake her. "This is important."

Well, it wasn't the only important thing. "Does Penelope Kirk – "

"Kerr," Amanda and Betty said together.

"Does Penelope whoever understand this is just a press thing? I mean, Betty's my real date. I don't mind, you know, riding there with this girl, letting the paps get our photo – "

"That's perfect!" Amanda began to bounce up and down as if her heels were spring-loaded. "Daniel, you're the best!"

He wondered how being the best could feel so crappy. "Betty, I'm sorry – we're still on, right?"

"We'll see each other there," Betty said as she went out. "Don't worry about it." Which wasn't exactly a yes.

As Amanda wrapped him in an enthusiastic hug, Daniel determinedly thought, _Well, it's not a no. _

_And my job on Thursday night is to turn it into a total, unquestionable yes. _

**oooooo**

Claire worked hard on HOT FLASH, of course, and wrangling her children was a challenging career of its own. But she liked her mornings leisurely.

Rising at the non-aggressive hour of eight a.m., she slipped into a silk robe, came downstairs and breakfasted on melon and gourmet coffee in the conservatory while she checked her stocks online and went through her various invitations. Back in the day, the coffee was often accompanied by a mimosa or three – often without the orange juice – but at this point, Claire didn't miss them much.

Today? She would have killed for a bottle of vodka.

Every person she'd ever met in Manhattan, and hundreds she hadn't, had joined the throng jostling for an invitation to the HOT FLASH gala. The Heart of Kashmir was only displayed in public once a decade, if that often; even those sensible enough not to believe in the legends of its power to grant the heart's desire wanted to be part of the inevitable publicity crush. Arianna Huffington … the Weinstein brothers … Matthew Broderick and Sarah Jessica Parker … the trick was figuring out whom not to offend, and whom to offend so egregiously that they'd make a delicious stink that stirred up publicity yet further. By the time she was done, this would be the event of the year, and donors would spend lavishly in the attempt to be recognized as the most charitable of them all.

Doing good while reminding New York high society that she could still rule the roost? Deeply satisfying – or it would be once she got all the damned work done.

Claire sipped her coffee and moved on to the next stack of invites. The first one on the pile made her stop and stare. Slowly she reached into the pocket of her pink silk robe and pulled out her secret shame – mother-of-pearl rimmed reading glasses. With a hand that trembled with emotion, she slipped them on and read:

_I'd like to come, Claire. Don't you believe we should talk? I've had time to think, and I imagine you have too. _

_Cal_

She hated him as fiercely as she'd loved him. But that old love was as deathless as the hate.

Was it possible that he'd reconsidered his position about Tyler? Though he'd said nothing recently, Claire knew that her younger son longed to have a discussion with his birth father – and that the rejection had hurt him, despite her best efforts at providing some kind of a shield. When Tyler got out of rehab next week, the question of dealing with his father would resurface – how much better it would be to actually reunite them. More than that: If Tyler were acknowledged as Cal Hartley's son, he would stand to inherit millions. Money wasn't everything, but it damn sure didn't hurt.

No, she'd never trust Cal with her heart again. But if he had it in him to reach out to their son – then she might forgive him, at least a little. For Tyler's sake, and for the sake of the younger, more foolish woman she'd been, seeking reassurance for her husband's infidelity in all the wrong places.

Claire found herself thinking of the Heart of Kashmir – that brilliant red heart-shaped jewel, cut so exquisitely that a star of fire seemed to flicker in the very center every time the stone was touched by light.

Luck in love could mean more than romance, couldn't it? Maybe it could touch a father's love for his son, too.

Decisively, she took Cal's note and dropped it in the YES pile.

**oooooo**

The summer heat hadn't yet reached upstate New York, at least not this far up in the mountains. Wilhelmina tugged her turquoise shot-silk shawl more snugly around her shoulders and wished Connor could have gotten himself transferred somewhere a bit less bleak. Didn't they have incarceration facilities in Florida, say? Or perhaps Hawaii?

"Connor Owens?" said the bored guard, summoning anybody who was there for him. Wilhelmina stood and strode with pride into the visiting room – a long row of Plexiglas booths, one battered gray phone for each. Quickly she spritzed her receiver with scented antibacterial spray, then artfully arranged herself in the booth.

She knew his steps before she saw him. Amazing, how she could even hear the fall of his booted feet and tell Connor from apart any other man in the world.

He stood and stared at her, almost sadly, for a long moment before he sat down. Their eyes met across the glass barrier, and Wilhelmina drank him in hungrily: orange coverall hanging on a frame thinner than before, but still whipcord-muscled, dangerous and tempting. His hair had been cropped very short, revealing the hard lines of his face all the more strongly. The changes only enhanced what remained the same – the core of the man, the core of what had made her love him.

Finally Connor sat and took up his half of the phone. "Willie." His voice was heavy. "I didn't want you to find me."

"What you want doesn't come into it, mister. Nobody walks away from Wilhelmina Slater."

"Are you here to punish me, then?"

"You'll get punished when you're free again." She arched her eyebrow in a way meant to suggest just what she meant by punishment, and how deeply enjoyable it would be. "Connor, why did you leave like that?"

"Because I didn't want you wasting your life on a man who's going to spend the next several years rotting in prison." Connor touched his fingers to the Plexiglas. "You deserve more than this, Wilhelmina. More than me."

"I'll decide what I deserve, thanks." Damn, but he could make her angrier than anyone else. And hotter than anyone else. Sometimes Wilhelmina wanted to curse the fate that had made her fall in love with him – but most of the time, she knew she could never have truly loved anyone who challenged her any less. "And you don't have to spend the next several years in prison. Maybe not even the next several months."

Connor gave her a look. Though she could tell he was on the verge of walking off, nobly sacrificing himself for her own good – he wasn't noble enough to turn away from a chance at freedom. They were alike, in that way. "What do you mean?"

She outlined the plan she'd come up with over the past couple of weeks – Connor as jailhouse informant, using his extraordinary powers of manipulation and cunning to get the confessions prosecutors could use to close cases far more important than his. It had taken some work to get her father on board with this, more still to pull the strings she'd had to pull to make this happen, but it could work. Would work, if only Connor would say yes.

He listened intently, his eyes never leaving hers. His fingers were so tense around the receiver that she could see the whiteness of his knuckles. A long pause followed her words, until he said, "Willie, you know I'll give this a try. But even if this works – "

"Which it will."

"Even if, I'll be an ex-con. Not the high-powered executive you wanted in your life."

"Dammit, Connor, when are you going to stop dictating what my life is supposed to look like? You don't work as a consultant for Meade anymore. That means I don't want your advice on how to run my affairs. Seeing as how you're the one in the slammer while I've got the Meades eating out of my hands, maybe you should take my advice once in a while." Wilhelmina took a deep breath before finishing, "Use what I've told you. Get out of jail. But when I come back tomorrow, you're going to tell me whether we'll be together afterward. That answer will be final, because I don't have time for your self-sacrificing crap. So think it over."

She slammed down the receiver, and for a moment they stared at each other through the Plexiglas, silent now, separated by more than the barrier. Then Wilhelmina pressed her hand against the glass, her fingers opposite his, and it was realer than any touch could have been.

Then she stood up and stalked out, forcing herself not to look back even once.

**oooooo**

Wednesday should have been a hugely exciting day: Betty had relatively little to do at the office until her copyedits came back, and that meant she was free to take a longer lunch, brush up some potential pitches, and prep herself for tomorrow night's gala. Not only would it be the networking event of the season, but also – the Heart of Kashmir! A chance to dress up and spy on the glittering high-society world she didn't envy, exactly, but needed to be comfortable with if she were going to have the career she wanted.

And yet somehow, she spent most of the day in a very bad mood.

Daniel kept sending her emails asking when she thought she'd get there, how late she wanted to stay, that kind of thing – as if they were really going on a date. For about two seconds after he'd asked her yesterday, Betty had thought that was precisely what he was asking her to do. Crazy, of course: He was just trying to make it up to her for her not meriting a plus-one. Being a good friend. That kind of thing.

No, he wasn't the problem. The problem was that, for the two seconds she'd thought he might really be asking her out, she had … liked it.

_You are so not going there,_ Betty thought. _You're not developing a crush on your best friend just because you're lonely and bored and jealous of people like Henry and Charlie who find new significant others easier than you can find a pair of shoes in your size on the sale rack. Have some pride. And be realistic._

Realism, in this case, took the form of gossip items popping up on websites throughout the day, buzzing about the rumor that Daniel was now dating up-and-coming singing artist Penelope Kerr. Various photo manips showed them together, as if they'd already been to dozens of events. The photos all revealed that Penelope was a tall, skinny blonde – just Daniel's type, really. Maybe he would date her. Maybe he'd just sleep with her – he wasn't as much of a horndog anymore, but he hadn't taken any vows of celibacy, either.

One site had even come up with their celebrity namesmush already: Danielope. What kind of a name was Danielope? It sounded like some bizarre creature out of Dr. Doolittle.

There was really no reason for this to be annoying her so much.

Betty forced herself to stop checking the gossip sites and concentrate on how she could use the event to her best advantage. Okay, so, the Heart of Kashmir wasn't going to give her romantic luck. That didn't mean she couldn't get lucky in the career sense. Being effectively dateless (no matter how much Daniel tried to soothe her feelings) meant she was all the more free to talk to publishing executives, make a good impression and maybe hear about more job possibilities. If charming Lindsay Dunne once had nearly gotten her all the way to London, charming someone else should at least let her move cross-town.

And if she was being this silly about a totally innocent suggestion from Daniel – well, the sooner she got out of MODE, the better. Obviously a change of scene would help her clear her head.

Late in the day, Betty went down to the Closet to search for a pair of the new Louboutins; writing 200 words about them would be easier if she could remember what they looked like. There she found Amanda, who – despite being only a part-time employee with no business even being in this part of the building – had apparently taken the space over, and not for MODE business, either.

"Okay, so, you're familiar with color," Amanda said to Betty by way of hello. "Like, too familiar. Most people need to get better acquainted with color, and you need to stop having sloppy drunk one-night stands with it."

"Thanks, sort of," Betty said easily. "What's this rack of dresses for?"

"I may have sort of kind of bribed a designer into sending me a rack of stuff that was supposed to go to Rachel Zoe's." Amanda shifted uneasily from foot to foot. "Or not. I'll deny it. You heard nothing!"

Betty folded her arms across her chest, mood darkening once more. "So, one of these is what Penelope will be wearing to the big bash."

"Yeah, I'm going over to see her tonight. I have to figure out what to take to her. So, given your tawdry relationship with color, which one of these would even you say is too much?"

"They're all gorgeous. Since when do you ask my advice about this stuff?" Betty frowned. "Are you sick or something?"

Amanda reached for a box of Fiddle Faddle resting atop a pile of metallic clutch bags. "Penelope said she wanted something bright, and I guess I'm freaking out a little. Tomorrow night is important, you know?" This last was said through a mouthful of caramel popcorn.

Silks and satins, in orange, cranberry, cobalt blue, palest lavender: Betty could have stamped her feet in envy. When she imagined these dresses, she imagined the slender, gorgeous Penelope in them – Daniel's hand sliding across the fabric as he took Penelope out on the dance floor – well, it was just stupid that top designers didn't make dresses this pretty in her size. That was all.

But Amanda's worry was real; the stakes were high for her. With a sigh, Betty decided to pick one out, which Amanda could then reject to make herself feel more confident. "My personal favorite is – the purple one." Which was the absolute truth. It was stunning – a patterned evening gown, so hard to find, but the pattern was subtle, melting from fold to fold, from darkest plum to softest lilac, with the darkest shades carefully framing the bust and narrowing the waist. The soft lines of the skirt were forgiving, the neckline low enough to show off curves without being too low to wear a good supportive bra. This was the kind of thing Betty could never stop thinking about, even though Penelope probably had the fake, gravity-defying breasts of her tribe.

"Seriously?" Amanda said, which was about what Betty had expected. Then Amanda surprised her by adding, "Because I like that too. Either you're developing real taste at last, or I've, like, been infected by your weirdo clothes. If you see me in a sweater vest, shoot me."

"You'd survive the experience. So, are you going to give Penelope that one, then?" The thought of Penelope wearing that gorgeous, feminine, covetable dress on her date with Daniel was unexpectedly galling. _Wow_, Betty thought,_ I have a bad case of … evening gown envy. _

Amanda wrinkled her nose. "Impossible. That one's not even close to her size – it's just on there because apparently Jordin Sparks tried it on for something yesterday and turned it down. Hey – you're kind of shaped like her, right? Kind of Play-Doh-ish? You should try it on!"

The Play-Doh comment would have bothered Betty more except that she was actually about to get to put this dress on her body. "No, really? Shut up!"

"Slip into something less comfortable, hon." Amanda waved her off to one of the dressing alcoves, while she kept munching on popcorn and going through the rack. "I'm going to try to look at all these again through your weirdly myopic fashion sense."

Betty ditched her work clothes and eagerly shimmied into the dress. It fit almost perfectly – it would need hemming, but she'd made a point of staying friendly with the tailoring crew ever since Christina took them all out for Jell-O shots during Betty's second week at MODE. The color was warm enough to flatter her skin, vivid enough to stand out anywhere. The cut emphasized all her best assets and disguised her worst. When she finally got around to picking up her new glasses – the ones with the darker frames that were more burgundy than red – even they would match.

"It's beautiful," Betty whispered, running her hands along the soft fabric. "Amanda, tell me I can borrow this." No doubt she'd have to bargain – even grovel – but it would be worth it to wear a gown this stunning just once in her life.

But Amanda simply shrugged. "Sure, whatevs."

"Really?"

"Like I said, Penelope's about a foot too tall for it, so why not? I don't care. But I have to give it back, so, like, if you eat ham or chimichangas or some other greasy stuff, don't wipe your hands on it."

"You're the one who does that!"

Betty wasn't angry, though. She was too busy being delighted.

Tomorrow night, she'd be as dazzling as Penelope or any other starlet Daniel might have on his arm. And she'd get – a new job, a freelance gig, an opportunity. Something sensible. Something real. She'd make her own luck.

And yet she knew she'd look deep into the star at the center of the Heart of Kashmir and wish, too.

The only question was what to wish for –


	7. Lucky Star, Part Two

The last time Daniel had ridden in a limousine, he'd gotten his new brother drunk without realizing he was an alcoholic. He sincerely hoped tonight would go better, though he doubted it.

First, there was the whole thing where Betty wasn't sitting beside him. Instead, Penelope Kerr – a knockout of a girl in deep orange satin that outlined a sensational body, but a total stranger – sat on the far edge of the seat, more concerned with texting somebody than with noticing him.

Second, in preparation for seeing Betty later, he'd wanted to look his very best, which somehow had involved him getting his hair shorn back to that haircut he'd just spent the last month and change growing out, and now he was paranoid that his ears were protruding like water wings. He'd never been worried about his ears before! Falling in true love seemed dangerously similar to clinical paranoia.

Then there was the whole thing about Cal Hartley being there tonight. That son of a bitch always rattled Mom, and the way Daniel's luck had been going the past couple of weeks, he'd probably figure out a way to blackmail Daniel into wearing a bunny suit again. Just the kind of thing to bowl Betty over.

"Listen," Daniel said, the first words he and Penelope had exchanged since about two minutes after she'd gotten into the car. They had driven as far north as the 70s, so it was time to clear things up. "It seems pretty obvious at this point, but you get that this date – it's not a date, right?"

"No worries." Penelope held up her cell phone and smiled; the screen showed a little string of emoticon hearts as the last message received. "I'm so not into you that I have a girlfriend at home in Williamsburg."

"Oh, I'm your beard!" Well, that simplified things. "Why didn't Amanda just say so?"

"She didn't? Huh. She's more discreet than I thought she'd be." Penelope's grin widened. "I think I'm going to like working with Amanda."

Daniel thought it was more likely that Amanda had simply forgotten to mention it, but he knew better than to mess it up for her. "Well, as it happens, there's a woman at the party tonight that I'm hoping to spend some time with – "

"Oooh, do you want to make her jealous? Like, I'm all over you, so she has to fight for you? I'm good at that. Two years on soaps – I can do a killer she-bitch glare." Penelope demonstrated. She was more talented than he'd realized. Maybe she really would become a major star.

"No, that's all right. I mean, please don't do that – she'd take it the wrong way. But once we get past the photogs …"

Nodding, Penelope said, "You're on your own, buddy. I'll work the room. As long as we walk out again at the end, it's all good. Thanks for this, by the way."

"No problem." He felt much relieved. This part would be pretty easy, which was more than he'd dared hope for since Amanda first threw Penelope at him. Now all he had to do was make sure that he asked Betty to dance early on, that he made it clear just what he wanted tonight to be –

Daniel realized his heart was beating faster. When was the last time he'd been this nervous about a girl?

He remembered when a few seconds after he and Penelope stepped out of the limo. As flashbulbs popped all around them, Penelope snuggling into his side with an actress' conviction and a singer's flair, a figure in white appeared in the corner of his eye – and the paparazzi started shouting, "Sofia!"

Crap. Sofia Reyes. Looking even better than she had the last time, like that should even have been possible. The tabloids would eat up pictures of her seeing him with another girl, which was no doubt ideal for Penelope's purposes, but was just damned embarrassing.

Penelope whispered in his ear, "Is Sofia the one you want to impress?"

"Hell, no."

"Then work it with me, would you?" Penelope unleashed her she-bitch glare again, this time at Sofia, as she wound her arms around Daniel's waist. The glare was so good that Sofia seemed to shrink back slightly, which he decided was more than worth the investment. All around them, flashbulbs went wild. They'd make headlines, for sure. So his favor was paid in full.

He just hoped Betty wasn't watching; with all the flashes going off, it was impossible for him to tell.

When the flurry of attention was dying down, they made their way into the Metropolitan Museum of Art – with one wing open after-hours for the bash. Daniel couldn't help grinning at his mother's extreme persuasiveness as he led Penelope through the winding Egyptian exhibit to the space.

"Whoa," Penelope said. "I had no idea we'd be _here_."

"Believe it."

They stood at the doorway that led to a giant, glass-walled interior space that held the Temple of Dendur – an entire millennia-old Egyptian temple brought stone by stone to the United States and reassembled: courtyard, statues and all. The museum had even dug a moat around the space to mimic the one that had been in Egypt, complete with carved stone crocodiles above the water. Beyond the glass were the trees of Central Park and the brilliant New York City lights. Unseen speakers played cool, sophisticated pop music. Within the temple space were a few hundred people milling around, spilling over into the mummies nearby, and, at the very center of the room, in front of the temple, in a spotlit glass case –

"The Heart of Kashmir," Penelope said, stepping forward. She seemed almost entranced; Daniel couldn't blame her. That thing was way more impressive in person than it had looked on "Mythbusters." Even from a few dozen feet away, the ruby caught the light in a way that made it seem to glow.

He walked with her, glancing once or twice around the room to see who all was there – a veritable who's who of Manhattan publishing society – but the jewel was the main attraction, for sure. As they reached the case, crowds swirling around them, Daniel found himself staring into the mesmerizing star of light at the very center of the Heart of Kashmir. The light's flickering made it almost seem to be beating.

_Wow_, he thought. It wasn't exactly eloquent, but it summed things up.

Then Daniel looked above the stone and saw Betty.

She stood at the edge of the room, alone. Her glossy dark hair tumbled more freely than he'd ever seen it, thick, bouncy and shining. That dress she wore outlined her curves in even more detail than his most cherished daydreams. The soft violet shades of it made her stand apart from so much black and white and beige in the room, and her full lips seemed to be almost the exact shade as the ruby.

_WOW. _

"You're drooling," Penelope whispered. "Hey, is that her? In the gorgeous purple dress? Your girl?"

"I wish."

"She looks – sweet." A slow smile spread across Penelope's face. "That makes me like you better."

"Thanks," Daniel said, though he couldn't have cared less what Penelope thought. All that mattered was getting closer to Betty.

But wait … where was she going?

**oooooo**

Betty stalked toward the bar, unable to bear the sight of Daniel schmoozing with Penelope Kerr one second longer. Honestly, after Trista, shouldn't he have learned? Shouldn't she have realized that something down deep in him hadn't totally changed?

And why should she care, anyway? He was Daniel. Goofy, irresponsible Daniel. This was just who he was, and getting upset about it at this point was ridiculous. It wasn't his fault if she'd let herself get – silly, for a few days.

Ignoring the odd empty feeling in her gut, Betty decided to get a white wine spritzer (the ideal business function drink, only strong enough to provide a little confidence boost, but incapable of producing intoxication.) She'd start working the room.

Sure enough, when she reached the bar, she immediately saw someone in publishing.

Unfortunately, that someone was Jodie Papadakis … the former head of YETI, and woman who had stolen Betty's would-have-been job at the NEW YORK REVIEW OF BOOKS.

"Well, well, well." Jodie's words slurred slightly. She, clearly, was not sticking to white wine spritzers. "If it isn't Betsy Gonzalez."

"Betty Suarez." Professional. Keep it professional. "How are things going at NYRB, Jodie?"

"Swimmingly. Isn't that right, Gabe?" She put her hand on the shoulder of a man near her, who to judge by his surprise wasn't actually Jodie's date – but to judge by his smile, wasn't averse to the idea. "That's the great thing about working for a publication that only caters to the – established market." There were too many Ss in established, but Jodie kept on going, drunk or no. "The ups and downs of the market don't get ya. How's that fashion mag of yours working out? You're here, at a Meade event, so I assume you've failed to move on."

_Thanks to you_, Betty thought. "MODE's doing great. Excuse me." She'd get her drink later, when Jodie was nowhere near the bar … though that might be a while.

Daniel seemed to be heading toward the bar himself, so Betty curved around the other way to walk closer to the Heart of Kashmir. As soon as she was within a few feet of the jewel, her cranky feelings began to slip away, replaced by a kind of wonder. The ruby was as astonishingly perfect as all the books had said, and the depth of its color and light greater than any photograph had ever captured.

_We make our own luck_, she reminded herself. _We get the love we give in the world. My dreams are going to come true. Maybe not in the way I thought, maybe not as fast as I'd hoped – but they will. _

The jewel's light seemed to slip into her. Maybe that was the true power of the Heart of Kashmir – not some supernatural luck, like a leprechaun's pot of gold might bestow, but the ability to make people understand what their heart's desire truly was, and give them the strength to go after it.

_Help me to know, _she thought. _Help me to see._

Betty felt a little silly even as she did it; surely she was the only person in the room sentimental enough to take this thing seriously. But she wished all the same.

**oooooo**

She wasn't the only person in the room wishing.

_My heart's desire is Betty_, Daniel was thinking as he doggedly made his way through the room, stopped every few feet by well-wishers and social climbers. _At this point, my heart's desire is just to get within ten feet of Betty. Is she wearing rollerblades under that dress? _

Amanda made her way to the jewel, thinking to wish for tons more clients as easy to please as Penelope, but even more famous. Instead, when she looked into the red star's light at the center of the stone, she found herself saying only, _Let Tyler be okay._

From her place at the very back of the room, where only the richest and most powerful dared approach, Claire glanced at the Heart of Kashmir and thought, _Let Tyler have a chance at some kind of relationship with the dad he's never known. Let Alexis find a man strong enough to love a new-made woman, and a way to be a mother to the child she fathered. Let Daniel finally figure out who it is he needs in his life. My children's love is all that matters to me. _ Then, just in case the damned thing actually worked, she added, _But if you'd like to send a little romance to an old broad sometime, feel free. _

Marc only looked at the ruby between desperate searches of the room; he knew it was unlikely that Cliff would be at this thing, but it wasn't impossible, was it? During the few moments he allowed himself to really take in the Heart of Kashmir's light, he found himself thinking, _If I could just get close to Cliff for a while longer, things would work out for me. Can't I have one more chance at real love? I won't blow it next time. Promise. _

And every single one of them thought they were the only one filled with enough yearning to make a real wish.

**oooooo**

Even Sofia Reyes was studying the Heart of Kashmir, Betty noticed. Surely anyone as hard and focused as Sofia wasn't longing for her heart's true desire, but maybe she recognized a kindred spirit. Sofia was a lot like a jewel: Beautiful, priceless but hard enough to cut glass.

Well, maybe that was just diamonds. She'd work on the metaphor later.

Just as Betty began to wonder if it was safe to visit a Jodie-free bar at last, she felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to see Daniel.

"Hi!" He seemed almost boyishly eager. "Took me a while to catch up with you – sorry about that."

"It's fine!" Betty managed to plaster a smile on her face, though she suspected it looked as fake as it felt. "You've been busy. With Penelope, and all."

"Oh, Penelope – you know what that is; that's nothing." Melanie Fiona began playing over the speakers, lush and sweet, and Daniel held out his hand. "So, now that I've found my real date for the evening, I think we should start dancing."

Betty could only stare up at him. Why was he still acting like this? It was as if – but no. No. It just wasn't possible.

Daniel's smile dimmed slightly. "Unless – do you not want to dance? We could, uh, get a drink, or sit down for a second – they've got some chairs back by the papyrus – "

"No. I mean, yes. I'd love to dance."

Slowly, Betty slid her hand into Daniel's. His skin seemed so warm.

He led her to the small area where people were dancing, at the front of the room, near statues of lioness goddesses that watched as they sat on thrones. The lights weren't especially bright there, and the music played a bit louder. Everything felt oddly dreamlike as Daniel pulled her into his arms and they began to sway to the music.

"You look amazing," he said in a low voice. "That dress is – wow. I seem to be using that word a lot today. Just … wow."

Why was this so different than dancing with him at Hilda's wedding had been? Betty felt as if she could hardly look Daniel in the face, and she couldn't remember the last time he'd made her feel shy. "Penelope's dress is pretty stunning too."

"I guess." He didn't seem to have noticed much. "And hey, are those new glasses?"

"Yeah. You like?"

"Very much." Daniel's left hand squeezed her right one, and she felt a decidedly swoony feeling in her belly that she had never, ever had for him before.

Okay. This wasn't good. Daniel couldn't possibly – it wasn't reasonable to expect that they both – but it wasn't both of them, because she wasn't really feeling – just a game. Flirting. _Practice. _

Betty had been able to believe that, before. Now it was a lot harder to do. But she knew she had to snap out of it, because she was on the precipice of making a big, big mistake. Of getting confused. No, she'd set things straight.

"So," she began, "you and Penelope seemed to be hitting it off."

"She's okay. Happy to play the publicity card. But it turns out she's a lesbian. Just needs a little cover."

"Ohhh." That hugging and fawning in front of the cameras had just been for show, then. Normally Betty would have said something about how it was a shame that people still felt the need to hide their sexual identity, how prejudice was so screwed up, but the main conversation between her and Daniel didn't seem to have anything to do with the words they were speaking. Only with the way their bodies were touching, and how he kept looking down into her eyes …

"I'm glad we finally got together," Daniel said. "And I'm sorry the whole Penelope thing got in the way of our date."

"That's okay. Really. It's not like, well, a real date."

He frowned. "Of course it is. I'm here with you. I'm dancing with you."

She couldn't let herself get carried away by this. She just couldn't. "You could ask other people to dance if you wanted to, though."

"I don't want to dance with anyone else." Daniel's voice was very soft now. The vibrations seemed to ripple down her spine. A swirl of awareness – both fear and exhilaration – tugged at her, not so different from the pull of vertigo at the top of a cliff. The terror of falling and the desire to fly, tied together, inseparable.

"But you could," Betty doggedly insisted. "If someone walked in who, you know … who took your breath away."

He sighed, a sound halfway between frustration and longing. "Betty – _you_ take my breath away."

Their eyes met, and she felt it like being bathed in a white-hot spotlight. Betty could only look up at Daniel – her Daniel, both as familiar to her as her own skin and totally, utterly new – and think, _both of us. This is happening to both of us. _

Which was the first moment she'd ever let herself realize what it was that was happening in the first place.

Her mouth formed a silent O; actually getting any words out was impossible, but he seemed to understand. Slowly Daniel started to smile, and she did too, and then they were both unable to look at each other any longer. Shyness and delight made Betty duck her head, and she almost couldn't think of what to say. Finally she managed, "I didn't expect that."

"Are you – is that okay?" He sounded so uncertain, so hopeful, that it made her heart swell within her chest.

Betty moved slightly closer to him and looked back up into his face – so nakedly vulnerable. "It's definitely okay."

Daniel breathed out once, in almost comical relief, before he glanced over at the main door into the room. "You know, we could maybe take a walk. See a little more of the museum, away from here … talk for a while. Have some privacy."

Her pulse quickened even further. "Yeah. We should."

Was this really happening? Was she about to sneak out of a party to make out with Daniel Meade? (Betty didn't fool herself for one second about what "talking for a while" meant, in this situation.) This felt like the kind of thing she ought to think over in a lot more detail before letting herself get swept away, but all the same, Betty knew she was going to let him lead her out of here. She might even be the one leading him.

Their hands still intertwined, Daniel pulled her toward the door – then stopped in his tracks. Betty was confused for only the second it took her to see who had just walked in.

Cal Hartley stood there, prideful and handsome as ever … with Victoria Hartley on his arm. Husband and wife had reconciled, it appeared.

_Oh, no_, Betty thought. _Mrs. Meade – how could they do this to her? _

But Claire was walking toward them, expression composed. Betty could see the tension in her movements, but there was no surprise there, only concern. She must have known that they were coming, or at least that it was a possibility. Sighing in relief, Betty squeezed Daniel's hand a little tighter, reassuring him that his mother was okay. When he looked over her shoulder at her, Betty saw that he was calming down.

"Cal," Claire said smoothly. "Victoria. Welcome. I'm glad we have a chance to talk."

_Of course. This is about Tyler. _Betty felt silly for not realizing before that eventually Claire would extend an olive branch, and eventually the Hartleys would take it. The Meades and the Hartleys were linked forever, now, and better to make that connection as positive as it could be.

Which also meant that Matt was linked to Daniel forever … but that was something to think about later.

Just as Betty prepared to draw Daniel away from the scene, and toward her, Victoria Hartley spoke to Claire.

Her voice ringing through the entire gala, she said, "You bitch."

**oooooo**

Claire didn't give a damn about Victoria winning Cal back. At this point, she was welcome to the man. But she did give a damn about being insulted at her own party. "I beg your pardon?"

"Your lies about this 'Tyler' person are supposed to drive us apart," Victoria said. "You're so transparent, Claire. You always were."

"Vicki, stay calm." Cal's tone of voice told her that he hadn't planned a confrontation this ugly – but that he disagreed only with the way Victoria was speaking, not the content of what she was saying. "I'm sure Claire intends to be reasonable. We've all got a lot of old mistakes to get past."

"Speak for yourselves." Victoria's nose couldn't have been any higher in the air if she'd still been nursing her old coke habit from the '80s.

Murmurs within the party were now loud enough to nearly drown out the music, which meant they were loud enough to drown out their conversation, if they kept it at a lower tone of voice. Claire didn't care much about gossip any longer – after you'd done some prison time, in her experience, you developed a thick skin – but Tyler was so fragile right now. For his sake, she wanted some of this to be secret. "Come with me, would you?"

She walked quickly toward a side area where ancient sarcophagi lay. What better place to dig up old secrets. Victoria and Cal followed her, as she'd expected; just behind them was Daniel. He held Betty's hand, as if he wanted to drag her along, but she gave him a look of the deepest understanding before letting him go. That alone was enough to tell Claire that the Hartleys had interrupted something she very much would have preferred not to be interrupted: One more way they'd pissed her off.

Once they were far enough in to have some semblance of privacy, Claire stopped. A giant black sarcophagus stood upright behind her; at least someone had her back. "All right," she said, as the Hartleys stepped in front of her and Daniel came quickly to her side. "What the hell is this about?"

Cal put one hand on Victoria's arm, silencing her. Maybe that was the main reason they'd never made it; Claire knew she didn't take as well to being silenced. "You've come up with this kid named Tyler," he said. "You claim he's my son. There was a time you claimed something very different. Can you blame me for doubting you?"

"For doubting me, no," Claire replied. "For doubting Tyler, yes. I do blame you."

"Both of you need to back off," Daniel began – so sweet, trying to defend her, just as he had when he was a boy and Bradford would shout at her for being drunk in front of the kids. It had cut Claire's heart open to hear him then, and it wasn't much easier now.

She gently patted Daniel's shoulder. "This is all going to be said eventually, Daniel. Let's say it now."

Victoria said, "We want you to sign an affidavit that Tyler is in no way Cal's son."

"Tyler is Cal's son," Claire replied. "If I could somehow choose another father for him, believe me, at this point, I'd be only too happy. But facts are facts, and a DNA test will clear things up nicely."

"I'm not taking any DNA test." Every one of Cal's words lashed against her as sharp and fast as the end of a whip. "If you think I'm going to risk my son's inheritance – my real son's – on your say-so, then you're a fool."

Claire folded her arms. "If you were so sure he wasn't yours, you'd take the test in a heartbeat to prove me wrong. Which means you know he's yours, and you're still turning away. Good God, Cal, don't you have any heart at all?"

"No," Daniel said in a low voice. "The rest of us knew that from the start, Mom. I wish you hadn't had to find out like this."

Cal continued, "That kid is getting out of rehab next week, according to the gossip rags. The rumors are picking up. I want them silenced."

"Making a scene at this party isn't the way to quash rumors," Claire pointed out.

Victoria tossed her hair, insofar as her expertly coiffed-and-sprayed helmet could toss. "If you sign that affidavit, it will be over. We're prepared to be generous, Claire. A nice donation for your cause, a nicer donation for the performer you've brought in to play the part of the illegitimate son. Then our two families can have nothing more to do with each other from this day on, and that's how we'd all prefer it. Don't you agree?"

Claire could have slapped her. But she said only, "If Tyler chooses to sign away his rights as your son, then that's his choice. I won't make it for him. I've done too much of that already. Excuse me."

As she walked back toward her party, Daniel fell in beside her. "Mom, are you okay?"

Tyler might be her youngest son, but Daniel would always be her little boy. Claire smiled at him tenderly. "No. But I can get through this party without a drink."

"That's not what I was asking."

"I know, sweetheart." They emerged back into the temple room, where people were doing their best to act as if they were looking at, and taking about, something else. As they came to the water's edge, she added, "Why don't you find Betty again? You two seemed to be having fun."

Daniel gave her a sidelong look. "How do you manage to be right about everything all the time?"

The first real smile she'd worn in hours came to her face. "I can't help it. I'm your mother."

He turned from her to go find Betty, and that was exactly as Claire wished it, and yet his departure left her feeling almost desolately alone. How could she have been such a fool as to love Cal Hartley? How could she ever have gone back to him? Why did she let him hurt and humiliate Daniel, and why hadn't she seen from that how he would hurt and humiliate Tyler in turn?

_I'm such a fool_, she thought. _I wouldn't know who really loved me and who didn't if they were staring me in the face. _

"Claire, darling!" That was some socialite, what's her name, something hyphenated, cooing at her elbow. "So glad things are settled down. I so wanted you to meet the most darling friend of mine – we met last month at Monte Carlo – "

"As it happens," said the second woman, "we've met."

Claire turned to see a dark woman dressed in a stunning Caroline Herrera, looking every inch born to the glittering, sophisticated scene. Only the mischief in her eyes betrayed any hint of impropriety. In astonishment, she said, "Yoga?"

"Fish." Yoga grinned.

The socialite looked back and forth between them as if she were watching a tennis match. "Nicknames? Were you at prep school together?"

As she, too, began to smile, Claire said, "Something like that."

**oooooo**

As late as ten minutes ago, Daniel would have said that no power on earth could have dragged him from Betty's side, particularly not when she was in his arms and smiling up at him and so obviously very willing to finally, finally, at last be kissed.

Now he had to amend that to: no power on earth other than those Hartley jerks being cruel to his mother.

Betty had understood, though – he'd known that even before she'd squeezed his hand to let him go. That made it even better to return to her side.

Daniel found her standing near the bar, apparently waiting for her drink. He came up behind her, the better to whisper into her ear, "Hi, there."

Her hand reached back to find his – the touch a thrill so new as to be nearly overpowering – but she said only, "Shhh." At first he was confused, but when he looked past Betty to the scene unfolding, he understood completely.

Jodie Papadakis – at least two sheets to the wind, possibly a whole white sale to the wind – swayed in front of a very angry woman and a very sheepish man. "Me and Gabe were jus' talkin'!" Jodie insisted. "Some people, they get all touchy-feeling. When they're talkin'. 'S natural."

"You show up drunk half the time," the woman shouted. She was about Jodie's age, though to judge by the clothes and jewels she wore, she was a hell of a lot richer. "You turned in your last three assignments late. But now you hit on my boyfriend? Are you insane?"

"You're dreamin'!" Jodie yelled back. "Only my last two assignments!"

Against Betty's temple, Daniel whispered, "And that would be – "

"The publisher of the NYRB." Betty's satisfaction practically shone from her every pore – though he noticed that she leaned back slightly, against him, still as eager for contact as he was.

The woman finally shouted, "You're fired!" before stalking off, leaving a sodden, sullen Jodie in her wake. As the hapless boyfriend followed her, Betty murmured, "Justice is sweet."

"Justice? Not revenge?"

"It would only be revenge if I'd done it to Jodie." Betty turned to face him, her smile so stunning Daniel almost forgot to miss the braces. "She did it to herself. Which makes it about a thousand times sweeter."

"Stop laughin!" Jodie demanded as security guards dragged her away. "Especially you, Gonzalez! You think you've got it so good!"

As Jodie vanished into some service corridor, never to be seen again, Daniel murmured, "Who is Gonzalez?"

"No telling." Betty's shrug was as enigmatic as the sphinx-like statues around her.

"Well." Daniel found her fingers with his, as much of a caress as he would dare in front of this many people. "I realize it would be hard to make this night even sweeter for you, but – I'd like to try."

Did Penelope hear it like some kind of siren call? Because instantly she was there by his side. "Things are heating up. If the paps are going to pay any attention to us as we go out, we'd better leave now. Oh, hi! You're Daniel's real date." At least Penelope was friendly. She stuck her hand out toward Betty while mouthing, as if Daniel couldn't see, _He's into you._

"I wouldn't want to keep Danielope fans waiting," Betty said, stepping back. Before Daniel could protest, she added, voice gentle, "You've already made my night – incredibly sweet."

"Same here." Daniel couldn't believe he wasn't going to get to kiss her – but he could wait. It felt like he would burn with impatience every single second of that time, but he could deal. Because he knew now that Betty _wanted_ him to kiss her, and that alone was enough to set off a kind of Fourth of July fireworks display in his heart. "Goodnight, Betty."

"Goodnight, Daniel."

Quickly he took her hand and lifted it to his mouth. As his lips brushed the back of her hand, he looked into her eyes and saw once again that jolt of electrifying connection binding them together. Daniel let her go, but he could feel the warmth of her touch all the way out of the Met, all the way to the waiting limo on the street.

"Wow," Penelope laughed, "you look like Pepe Le Pew after he sees that cat with white paint on her back. Are you going to skip all the way across town?"

He couldn't even pretend to be embarrassed. "No, but if little hearts start appearing around my head, hide me, okay?"

"Are you kidding? That would be the photo op of the year."

Daniel chuckled as he slid his arm around her waist and posed for all the photogs, happy to show them something fake. His real secret was too good to share with the world … for now.

**oooooo**

Even as a senator's daughter, it took Wilhelmina more than 24 hours to get her and Connor some time in the conjugal trailer. Yes, he might simply use that as the location to turn her plan down – but if there was a chance of even a goodbye kiss, Wilhelmina intended to get it.

_This man threatens my pride_, she thought, not for the first time. _ I ought to hate that a hell of a lot more than I do. _

At the appointed hour, Connor was ushered in, his cuffs removed. He stared at her hungrily during the eternity it seemed to take for the guard to back out again. Wilhelmina had dressed carefully for this – a low-cut pink cashmere sweater and white slacks that outlined every curve – and the care had paid off, because she could feel his gaze white-hot against her skin.

Finally the door closed, leaving them alone.

"You witch," he said, his voice caressing the word until it became an endearment. "You got me here like this because you knew I couldn't say no to you."

"You've defied me before. Which is how you wound up in this … charming abode." The conjugal trailer had wood paneling, a frame-only bed in the corner and this sofa, which had no doubt hosted all manner of activities and the resulting bacteria. "Like I said, Connor, I've handed you the get-out-of-jail-free card. I have no doubt you'll use it. The only question is what you're going to do when you get out."

Connor took two steps toward her before roughly pulling her into his arms. "This," he whispered, and then he kissed her.

Dear God, she had forgotten what this man's mouth tasted like. The way his hands felt when they roamed over her body. Or how good it felt for once – once in her long, driven life – to utterly lose control. Wilhelmina kissed him back as fiercely as he kissed her, pulling at his prison coverall, already eager to shuck it from his skin and reclaim him as her own.

"This," Connor repeated against her throat, his voice shaky, "but every night, every day, every single time I can get my hands on you."

"That's a little more like it."

He towed her toward the bed, and they toppled upon it. Wilhelmina noted that the sheets seemed to be fresh, and this was as much as she could hope for. Besides – when it came to Connor, she wasn't scared of things getting a little messy.

"You know I love you, Willie." Connor slid her slacks off her hips in one smooth motion. "Every damn inch of your body, and every damn scheme in your soul."

"We're only getting started." Her fingers snagged the zipper of his coverall and began tugging it down, tooth by tooth.

"I'm busting the hell out of this joint," he said. "Your way. And then we'll take New York on our terms, my way."

Wilhelmina chuckled as he pulled her against him, bare skin against bare skin, the way it hadn't been in far too long. "You'd better believe it."

"We're going to own that city." Connor's face had taken on an almost unholy longing. "And together, you and me – we'll bring Daniel Meade down. Forever."

She would have protested – really, she would have – if he hadn't kissed her again, so passionately that it blotted out everything but the need to be with him, completely, now.

The fate of Daniel Meade could wait.

**oooooo**

Betty hardly slept a wink that night.

She kept looking at herself in the mirror, playing with her hair, trying to see herself as Daniel had seen her. She kept staring at the violet dress hanging on her closet door, wishing she didn't have to give it back to Amanda the next day. It seemed like something she ought to keep forever.

But she also paced the floor. She doubted things she'd known to be true a few hours ago, only because she'd never even guessed at them in the years before.

At one point, around two a.m., in an effort to achieve clarity, Betty even pulled out her laptop and began making lists:

PROS:

Best friend

Kind and sweet

Unbelievably gorgeous

According to various tabloid reports, amazingly talented in … important areas

CONS:

Best friend

Can do amazingly stupid things sometimes

Occasionally flaky

High levels of personal drama

The lists weren't helping. All that seemed to matter was how it had felt to look into Daniel's eyes as they danced together and know that the change in their relationship was real, and it was mutual. And it was going to be about a whole lot more than just one dance.

Somewhere, halfway across Manhattan, she was willing to bed that Daniel remained awake too … thinking of her.

_Am I ready for this? Is he? What if we screw it up? We're both pretty good at screwing this stuff up._ Betty groaned as she flopped back onto her bed, still no closer to sleep or peace of mind. _If I messed up my friendship with Daniel, that would be horrible. _

_But don't I have to give this a chance? The way I felt tonight – I haven't felt anything like that in a really long time. If ever. If it goes wrong, though – _

Betty propped back up to stare at her computer screen. Glumly she added one more entry to the CONS list: "My boss." That just raised the stakes even higher.

Then she sat bolt upright and muttered, "Oh, my God, I'm an idiot."

The Heart of Kashmir provided all kinds of luck, the legends said. We make our own luck, Betty believed. Both of those had played a big part in tonight, and why hadn't she even seen it before?

Quickly she put together a letter to the editors of the NEW YORK REVIEW OF BOOKS and attached her updated resume. They'd liked her once and planned to offer her a job – the same job Jodie Papadakis had stolen and, now, been fired from. The vacancy was open, and Betty's resume would be the first one they saw, even before they started hiring.

She thought – no, she knew – that she had a really, really good chance at getting the job.

At leaving MODE.

_If I leave MODE, then Daniel won't be my boss any longer_, Betty thought. _Once I have another job, Daniel and I will be free to – become something else. _

_But what? _

Betty didn't have the answer yet. She was only just becoming willing to find out.

So she screwed up her courage, hit SEND, and tried to brace herself for everything the future might bring … for her, and for them.

END

_Next time on "Ugly Betty: Season Five" – "Down to Earth."_

_(Songs: "If You're Wondering If I Want You To," Weezer; "You Stop My Heart," Melanie Fiona; "I Wish You Love," Jane Monheit.)_


	8. Down To Earth, Part One

**Down to Earth**

Betty loved her father almost as much as humanly possible. At this moment, she thought the only way she could have loved him more would be if he'd just _go to sleep _already.

"The TV is so far away," Dad complained as he adjusted the covers on his bed. "I can barely see my stories!"

"Dad, yesterday when we moved the TV closer, you said the glare burned your eyes."

"So it doesn't need to be that much forward. But does it have to be so far back?"

With a sigh, Betty readjusted the TV cart and sent mental signal for Elena to hurry up already. The only pharmacy open on a Saturday night was some distance away, but shouldn't she have been back by now? Not that it mattered so much in the greater scheme of things; her father wouldn't run out of his main medication until tomorrow. So there was no real rush there.

However, Daniel was currently downstairs, waiting for her – and for the first moment they would have truly spent alone since that amazing dance on Thursday night.

Betty was trying hard to show her father the impatience she felt, but it was hard remaining cheerful and kind when he was being almost deliberately cranky and her whole heart wanted to be downstairs, talking to Daniel.

They had a lot to talk about. Betty knew that their crush was as powerful as it was mutual; all day Friday, in the office, they'd gone completely goofy every single time they as much as caught each other's eye in the hallway. Several texts had been exchanged about how amazing she had looked or how wonderfully he had danced. His hand had brushed along her back as they looked at the Book together, a moment that had made her flush so hot that her dress seemed to stick to her body.

But that wasn't all they needed to know. Betty's sensible side had already laid out a set of questions: How long had he been feeling this way? How serious were they? Was he really ready to move on after Molly? Was she just trying to replace the thrill that the prospect of London had so briefly raised in her life? How would they protect their friendship? So on and so forth. Yes, if this – whatever it was – if it was going to happen, they needed to get things straight as soon as possible. They needed to be smart about it. Not just … get carried away, like they would have if they could have been alone at the Met gala …

"Betty?" Papi folded his arms across his chest, clearly attempting to look extra-pitiful. Though she knew he was really sick, she also knew he loved playing up things like this for a bit of extra attention. "Won't you find me the photo album from when Justin was little?"

"Of course, Dad." She gritted her teeth and started looking.

And kept looking.

And looking.

Victory came after nearly half an hour: Whose big idea had it been to store that photo album in the plastic box with the old Barbie dolls? She delivered the photo album to her father, who was now sufficiently interested in one of his telenovelas to only wave at it vaguely as she set it by his bedside. "Call me if you need anything, okay?" she said, hoping very much that he would be good for a half-hour or so, or at least until Elena's return.

"I'm fine, _mija_. Go make sure Daniel hasn't fallen asleep."

Betty hurried downstairs. Poor Daniel – he'd already spent hours playing Clue with her, her father and Elena (Colonel Mustard, in the Library, with the Rope), then washing up the dinner dishes. By now he must be pacing the floor with impatience.

Instead, he was sitting in Papi's recliner – more like lying, since the chair was at full recline – watching TV.

Whatever mild pique Betty might have felt about that dissolved as she realized what it was Daniel was watching. "Casablanca! I love that movie."

He brightened as he looked at her. "Never seen it."

"You've never seen Casablanca? Daniel, that's crazy. It's only the best movie ever."

"I know! I mean, it only started however many minutes ago, and already – " His gaze softened as he looked at her. Daniel looked amazing tonight; even though he was only wearing jeans and a black T-shirt, they both hugged the long, lean muscles of his frame in a way that made Betty feel, well, tingly. But the most delectable part was the warmth in his eyes. "You know, I can watch Casablanca anytime."

As his hand moved toward the remote, Betty said, "Don't you dare. Come on. We'll watch it together."

"Oh, okay. We could go to the sofa, or – "

"Stay right there."

Betty went to the side of the recliner and slid in beside him, so that she and Daniel lay side by side. She'd done this dozens of times – with her father, when she was little; with Justin when he was younger; and sometimes she and Hilda still did it when they were feeling especially cozy and sisterly, and nobody had borrowed anybody else's earrings without asking for a while.

She'd meant to be cozy with Daniel. Even cuddly. But she hadn't counted on how incredibly different it would be once their bodies finally touched.

Daniel's body pressed against hers, calves to thighs to belly, and Betty was totally aware of the way her breasts brushed against his chest. She imagined he was even more aware of it than she was. The warmth of their skin seemed to cocoon them together, and she heard Daniel sigh softly as she snuggled against him, her head on his shoulder.

_Weren't we going to have a reasonable talk about this?_ Betty had meant to do that. She really had. It was a good idea. Necessary, even! And yet – and yet – the first moment she'd been able to lie in Daniel's arms, she'd done so, and right now she couldn't imagine ever pulling away.

He rested the side of his face against her forehead. As much as she wanted to speak, Betty thought if she did, her voice would tremble.

On the small TV screen in front of them, Ingrid Bergman, as Ilsa, was questioning Sam about Rick's love life. Sam was trying to pretend that Rick didn't love Ilsa anymore, but she just told him to sing their song again. Resigned, Sam began:

_You must remember this_

_A kiss is still a kiss_

_A sigh is just a sigh_

_The fundamental things apply_

_As time goes by_

Daniel's fingers stroked along her forearm. Betty closed her eyes, aware of nothing but the love song and his gentle touch.

_And when two lovers woo_

_They still say I love you_

_On that you can rely_

_No matter what the future brings_

_As time goes by_

He took his hand away just long enough to hit pause on the remote. Opening her eyes, Betty looked up at Daniel to see a sheepish smile on his face. He said, "I'm – not exactly paying attention anymore."

"Me either," she whispered.

Daniel brought his hand back, but this time he stroked his fingers through her hair in a soft caress. "Thursday night – I guess I was hoping we'd end up, you know. Here."

Betty couldn't resist teasing him a bit. "In my dad's ratty old La-Z-Boy?"

"Okay, not exactly here. But like this. Next to each other."

"Well, we're here now." Her gaze kept drifting to his lips. How had she never paid much attention to his mouth before? Although his lips weren't full, they were perfectly shaped, slightly parted … it seemed to her that she already knew how they would feel against hers …

The front door opened, and Daniel popped the recliner back into sitting position so fast that Betty spilled out of it onto the floor. He scooped her up immediately, but his apology was quickly drowned in Elena's chatter.

"My God! The line at Duane Reade – it was like the line for the last helicopter out of Saigon." Elena sagged against the banister, drugstore bags heavily laden in both her hands. "Is that reference too old for you two? Let's say it was like the line for the last tickets to a Rihanna show."

Though Betty's heart was still pounding, she went to Elena immediately. Daniel, she realized, had angled himself to stand behind the recliner; realizing why he felt the need to do that made her blush. "Elena, wow, thank you so much for going out. You got everything okay?"

"Yeah, sure. No thanks to that lady behind the counter. She said she had to check in the back. So I'm figuring the back of the pharmacy must be in Wyoming. Seriously, how can that take so long?"

"No idea," Daniel said. Though he was smiling, she could hear a slightly ragged edge to his voice. "It's crazy."

"Here, I'll run al this up to him." Elena started up the stairs, and as her footsteps became more distant, Betty edged back toward the chair.

"Sorry about the whole – dumping you on the floor thing," Daniel began.

She had to grin. "It's not like Elena would've freaked out if she'd seen us."

"I know. It's just – "

"Yeah. I know." No distractions. Nobody watching. Just the two of them – that was what he wanted, what she wanted too.

Betty knew there was this whole sensible discussion that she had another chance to begin, but instead she was walking around the back of the chair as Daniel was stepping from behind it, his hand stretching toward her –

Which was when the front door opened, and Justin stormed in. "This is_ unbelievable_."

"Justin?" Betty frowned. Next to her, she could hear Daniel making a sound not that far from a whimper. "What's wrong?"

"Well, you remember how I asked Austin to break up with Lily and tell her the truth?" Justin raked one hand through his hair, clearly beside himself.

"What happened?" Betty asked.

"He broke up with Lily and told her the truth!" Justin flopped down onto the sofa. "Which – like, now I'm supposed to be all thrilled and take him back, but I still feel weird, and I feel weird about feeling weird, and – I don't know."

"Give it time," Daniel said. "Think it over. I bet after a good night's sleep – at, uh, Bobby and Hilda's house – you'll feel better."

Rolling his eyes, Justin said, "They're doing that thing where they listen to the Three Tenors and feed each other ravioli and laugh a lot. I mean, I'm happy for them, but it's gross to watch. I thought I'd try escaping from the heterosexual mating dance for a while."

Betty sighed. Daniel gave her a look that would have been hilariously over-the-top mournful if she hadn't been feeling exactly the same way.

Justin's frustration seemed to melt away as he saw the image of Ingrid Bergman freeze-framed on the TV screen. "Oh, my God, are you watching Casablanca? That movie is, like, medicine for my soul. I'm so glad I came over here."

"Did someone say Casablanca?" What was Elena doing coming downstairs again already? "Ignacio's napping, so – you know, I think a classic movie night sounds perfect."

"After this – His Girl Friday!" Justin's mood, at least, had done a 180 since he'd arrived. Maybe, Betty thought, he'd stolen all her excitement … and Daniel's too. "This is going to be so awesome."

Which it was, sort of. They popped popcorn, and Daniel turned out to love Casablanca, and it was all good, except for the part where Betty really would have preferred to be making out with him like crazy.

Around midnight, Elena – a night owl – showed no sign of slowing down, and Justin had proposed that their next film ought to be Now, Voyager. That was when Daniel, with obvious regret, decided to head back in to Manhattan.

"Sure you can't stay?" Betty said to him at the front door, leaning against the doorjamb. "I wish we could have – I mean – I wish you could be here longer."

Voice gentle, he said, "Me too." Daniel reached for her, his fingers brushing against her wrist. Once they were hand in hand, he said, "Listen, it looks like your dad isn't always going to be alone on weekends – "

"Ya think?"

He grinned. "I know you want to be here most of the time, but next weekend is Memorial Day weekend, and since Tyler's getting out of rehab on Monday, Mom wants to have a family getaway. Me and Tyler, Amanda probably, Mom, and maybe Mom's friend Yoga … "

"Yoga?" Betty remembered her very well. "Aren't they, um, prison friends?"

"Yeah, and I'm trying really hard not to think about everything that might entail." Daniel's troubled expression shifted back into a hopeful smile. "Anyway, I was wondering if you wanted to come with us."

Go away with Daniel for the weekend? They hadn't even gone on a date yet! Unless the Met counted. Probably the Met counted. But – a whole weekend? It was simultaneously terrifying and thrilling. Betty blurted out the first thing that came to mind: "Isn't that a lot of people in one house?"

"It's a big house. Lots and lots of rooms. Whole wings to get lost in." The way he said it turned every word into a delicious promise. "And a long stretch of beach that's just ours. Mom always goes shopping, and Tyler and Amanda will probably want some time on their own. So we could, you know … get away."

They really ought to talk before they took such a big step. She needed to know more about how he was feeling, what he wanted. He needed to know that she was planning to leave MODE and how things might work for them after that. So many important things to say – and Betty said only, "That sounds amazing."

"Yeah?" Daniel looked so surprised, so relieved. Was he really as nervous as she was?

"Yeah. I mean, I need to talk to my family – straighten stuff out – but I'll let you know soon, okay?"

"Okay." He squeezed her hand briefly before letting go. "Good night, Betty."

"Good night, Daniel." Betty watched him walk all the way down the sidewalk, to the place around the corner where catching gypsy cabs was easiest. Daniel even knew her neighborhood by now.

She floated dreamily back into the living room, where Now, Voyager had begun playing on TV. Justin said, "I made more popcorn. Cheddar flavor." As he thrust the bowl at her, he added, "So are we thanking Daniel or not?"

"Huh?" Betty licked a bit of the cheddar-flavored powder off one finger. "For leaving?"

"No, for the hospital bills. Didn't Mom call you today?"

The hospital bills had been a source of anxiety for them all ever since Dad's last heart attack. They'd been waiting to find out what they owed – and waiting, and waiting. Hilda had agreed to do the latest round of follow-up. "No, she didn't call. What's up?"

"Oh, an 'anonymous benefactor' paid Grandpa's hospital expenses. Which of course means Daniel, but I guess we're not allowed to thank him. Or can we?" Justin sighed. "See what ravioli and the Three Tenors do to Mom? They turn her into a woman who thinks of nothing but being a love machine."

Elena laughed and swatted Justin on the shoulder. Betty pushed the popcorn away, no longer able to concentrate.

Daniel had paid Papi's hospital bills. Given how crappy his medical coverage was, that probably came to tens of thousands of dollars. And Daniel had just – paid it. Without even letting her know.

She should have felt grateful. She did feel grateful. But she also felt … overwhelmed.

Frown lines appearing between her eyebrows, Betty sank back into the recliner, which now felt very big, and very empty, with her sitting in it alone.

**oooooo**

Tyler managed to walk about three steps into the Horizons lobby before Amanda crashed into him. That was two steps farther than Daniel would have guessed.

"You look so good!" Amanda squealed, flinging her arms around his neck. This was a slight exaggeration, in Daniel's opinion; Tyler's hair was now cut so short that it made his own unfortunate haircut look hirsute, and he'd clearly lost a little weight he didn't need to lose. But his gaze was clearer, and he was more relaxed than at any other time Daniel had ever seen him. "I missed you!"

"I missed you too." Tyler kissed Amanda's forehead tenderly before turning to Mom. "All of you."

Mom wrapped her arms around him and rocked him back and forth, a gesture Daniel remembered well. It was reserved for extra-important cheering up, like after you didn't make the lacrosse team. "Welcome home, sweetheart. We're so happy to see you."

"We all are," Daniel said. He knew he was the one who had the most convincing to do on that score.

Tyler hugged him too, and Daniel returned it, but the touch was still slightly wary on both their sides. The smiles they exchanged were genuine, though. Maybe they'd get the hang of this yet. Maybe this weekend … well, no. This weekend he wanted to spend with Betty, every single second if possible. To judge by the way Amanda had snuggled up against Tyler, they probably had much the same idea. But hey, there was always the helicopter ride out to the private airstrip, and then the short flight to Newport; he and Tyler could talk then. Start the long road to really being brothers. Of course, Daniel's one brother relationship so far had mostly been one long bitter rivalry from start to finish, i.e., when it became a sister relationship that was still mostly a bitter rivalry. Obviously he needed more practice at this than most.

"Come along," Mom said, leading them all from the clinic. "I've taken the day off, so I can help you get settled back in at my house, Tyler – if that's where you want to stay."

"I want to get my own apartment soon." Tyler sounded firm. Solid. That was reassuring. "But I need a place to start out, so, yeah, let's give it a try for a while."

"You can always stay with me!" Amanda chimed in. "It's totally big enough for two people."

Daniel frowned. "Did Marc move out?"

"No, but we can totally boot him if we need to." She stared adoringly up at Tyler. "Marc's a survivor."

Tyler chuckled as he slung his arm around Amanda's shoulders. "No need for that. So, Daniel, you helping me settle in?"

"I have to get into MODE." Daniel shared a look with Mom; they were equally concerned about this. "Wilhelmina's called in with a 'family commitment' for half of last week and today, too. Something's up."

"Don't trust her," Tyler said gravely, like that was some kind of news flash. Then again, he was new to Wilhelmina's manipulations, while the rest of the Meade family were basically grizzled veterans of the war.

Daniel said only, "I don't, believe me."

They all rode in the limo together, though; the driver would drop everyone else off at Mom's house before taking Daniel to the Meade Publications building. The limo had a television, of course, which was as usual tuned to Fashion TV.

This was why the boom was lowered by, of all people, Suzuki St. Pierre.

"Slater's sexy sleazeball has slithered free!" Suzuki crowed, as an image of Connor Owens appeared on the screen. Daniel shared a shocked look with Mom before turning back to the news report. "That's right – MODE creative director and fashion doyenne Wilhelmina Slater must have charmed the guards, because as of today, her thieving paramour Connor Owens can call his prison time as over as the pegged jeans trend! Word has it he informed on jailhouse colleagues, and now he's footloose and fancy free. Fashion spotters in upstate New York – who turn out to exist, who knew? – saw Owens being whisked away by none other than Wilhelmina herself. What will the Divine Miss Slater's employers think of her romancing the stone-cold thief who nearly sank their company last year? Only time, or Daniel Meade, will tell!"

"Son of a bitch!" Daniel could have ripped the stupid television out of the limo and thrown it out the window in frustration, but he didn't, because he liked watching games in it sometimes while he was stuck in traffic. "Connor Owens? What the hell?"

"Stay calm," Mom said, though the color in her cheeks was high. "It's not as though there's anything else he can do to us."

"That we know about," Amanda chimed in. "He was all up in the company's money even before he got up in Wilhelmina's business, so there's no telling what all he might … should I maybe stop talking about this?"

"Yes," Daniel and his mother said in unison.

Tyler cleared his throat. "Do I even want the details here?"

"In Newport." Mom leaned back against the limo's seat. "Where it's quiet and peaceful, and Wilhelmina and Connor seem very far away."

Daniel stewed over this the whole way into Meade Publications. He managed to run into Sofia Reyes yet again in the elevator, which he could've dealt with fine on any other morning but further disgruntled him this morning. Couldn't just one damn thing go right?

Then he walked into his office to find Betty sitting on the chaise longue, waiting for him, and a shaft of light pierced his gloom. "Betty. God, am I glad to see you. Did you catch Fashion TV? The report about Connor?"

"Yeah, I did." She didn't rush to reassure him; she didn't even rise from the chaise. "I'm sorry. I know that's got to be weird."

"Weird? That hardly even covers it. That jerk nearly cost my family the company my father spent his whole life building, and my grandfather before that – and for what?" For Molly, of course, and she'd been a woman worth fighting for. But Daniel had thought Connor happier with Wilhelmina until the moment he'd discovered he was, temporarily but terrifyingly, quite broke.

Betty, normally so quick to comfort and reassure him, remained seated, and she pushed her glasses up her nose in a gesture he recognized as a sign of an impending lecture. But why would she be lecturing him? "Daniel, we should talk."

"Okay, sure." _What did I do this time?_

"Hilda talked to the hospital. They told us Dad's hospital costs were covered by someone anonymous, which of course means you."

"You don't know that," he tried.

"Daniel, come on. Who else is going to pony up that kind of money to help us out? It could only have been you."

Oh, it wasn't a lecture. It was uncertain gratitude. He could use a little praise for something done right this morning. Daniel tried not to look too self-satisfied. "You got me."

"I wish you hadn't done that."

It took him a couple of seconds to process what she'd said. "Wait, what?"

Betty made the little flappy hands that showed she was flustered. "That's not what I mean – of course I'm grateful, we all are. That was very generous of you, and it means a lot to the whole family. But I just wish you had … talked about it with me, or something."

"You would've told me not to. And I would have insisted, and we would've gone back and forth and back and forth, so I figured we'd just skip it."

"It makes me feel weird, Daniel. With everything that's – with you and me – and – do you get that it's a little weird?"

He did not get that it was weird in any capacity. After a morning spent psyching himself up to welcome his brother, then picking up his mother in the limo only to see Yoga waving goodbye to her in a velvet bathrobe, then finding out that fucking Connor Owens was not only out of jail but also working with Wilhelmina again … well, he wanted a pat on the back. Or a smile. Something. Not Betty giving him a sour face for trying to do something kind.

"I guess I don't see the problem," Daniel said shortly.

"Daniel. It's not that I'm not thankful. We all are."

"Well, I didn't do it to be thanked."

They stared at each other. Daniel's annoyance was already simmering down – it was Connor he was ticked off at, not Betty, and she had always said something about not relying on his money; he'd never gotten that, since he relied on it all the time, but it was kind of a thing for her, wasn't it?

But it seemed too late to say anything else about it. He'd already snapped at her, and a heavy awkwardness had descended between them. Better to just leave it for now.

Right?

"Oh. Okay. I appreciate it anyway." Betty shrugged. "Well. Glad we got that cleared up."

Daniel had the distinct sense he'd handled that wrong. But how on earth was he supposed to handle it any other way? Couldn't Betty at least, well, smile at him? A Betty smile would fix everything. "Yeah. All cleared up."

"Well. All right. I have, um, work to do." She finally rose, but only to walk out the door. Without looking back, she said, "See you later."

He didn't even answer.

What the hell had happened to his world this morning?

**oooooo**

Oh happy day, that hath such HUDSON shoots in it!

Marc had gotten the word as soon as the photo crew entered the building, but there was still a certain thrill in walking into the shared studio space and seeing Cliff hard at work on an accessories shoot. As a hand model showed off a fine wristwatch and the lighting guys did their work, Marc dared to call, "Hello, stranger."

"Hi, there." Cliff still seemed more cool than friendly, but he was willing to talk. That was good! That was the only in Marc needed.

"So, how are you redefining masculinity for the straights this month?"

Cliff's mouth quirked in a smile. He'd always been able to make Cliff laugh. "Deep-sea diving. Just so happens everything for this month's accessories feature is waterproof. When we take this shot, he'll be holding a harpoon gun."

"What is he harpooning? Sharks? Manta rays?"

"I dunno. Moray eels. Ariel and Flounder. We'll have to see what they Photoshop in."

They shared their first laugh in way too long, and Marc felt the giddy swirl in his chest he'd once had back when they were first in love …

And his cell phone went off.

"Sorry, just a sec." The ring tone was the Pet Shop Boys' "Go West," as in, young man, so he knew who would be on the other line. "Justin! What's up?"

"I don't know whether or not to take Austin back," Justin said in a quiet voice.

Marc half-turned, holding up his hand to ask for time away from Cliff. "Did he do what you needed him to do?"

"Yeah, but – I thought that would fix everything, and it doesn't. I still feel like he lied to me. He did lie to Lily. Is he an honest person? Do I want to be in love with somebody who isn't an honest person?"

Although Marc knew Cliff couldn't actually hear Justin's voice, it felt so – on the nose, for him to be standing there. Because in their relationship, he'd been the liar. And Cliff had made the decision to choose an honest person, i.e., someone else.

"Do you love him?" Marc said quietly. "Do you still love him, even though he wasn't straight with you? – no pun intended."

Justin sounded incredibly miserable for someone who answered, "I love him like crazy."

"Then maybe it's worth a shot. I mean, he came clean, right? Lily knows what's what, now."

Cliff had turned back to his work. No doubt he could still hear, but no doubt he didn't care. Their moment had passed, but – well, he'd have to find another moment. His gay padawan needed him.

Marc continued, "Listen, you know how long it took me to come out to my mother and stop bearding. I mean, _you were there_, Justin. That's how long it took."

"You and Aunt Betty pretended to be in love!" Justin had started laughing now. "That was even less convincing than TomKat, and you know I wouldn't say that lightly."

His little chimichanga. Marc sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "All I'm saying is, it's not easy. Maybe it's easier for your generation than it was for mine, but coming out is still tough as hell."

In a small voice, Justin said, "I know that. I mean, mine was pretty much ideal, and I was still so scared I wanted to vomit."

"So can you really blame Austin if he was a little scared too? I'm not saying you should put up with anything and everything. But one more chance – that sounds reasonable, to me."

"I'll think about it." Justin sounded better. Steadier, anyway. "Thanks, Marc. I owe you one."

"You owe me a zillion. Don't think I'm not going to collect. Seriously, you're coughing up some movie tickets this summer, kid."

"You've got it." And there was a smile in Justin's voice that helped restore Marc's sense that this really could be a great day.

But when he hung up, Cliff was already hard at work once more, positioning the harpoon gun in the model's hands. No doubt he hadn't cared enough to listen … and so hadn't heard anything about giving a lover one more chance.

**oooooo**

"Christ, I missed this town." Connor breathed in the stale air of New York City; Wilhelmina smiled, aware of just how sweet it could smell when you wanted it badly enough. "The energy of it. The pace. The sheer hate you feel anytime you nearly bump into someone. It's everything it means to be alive."

"It's again our city to command," she said, snuggling against his side as they walked along, arm in arm. "The only question is what we tackle next. The world of finance – the world of politics – or any number of industries – "

_Besides Meade_, Wilhelmina meant, and she hoped that was understood. Connor's criminal past would count against him anywhere, of course, but she could be the public face of their efforts. He could provide his own delicious combination of smarts and cunning behind the scenes. Together, what couldn't they do?

She was finally returning to MODE … almost a week after she'd left, and in the afternoon at that, but what the hell. Danny Boy knew what she was worth, and if celebrating her beloved's release from jail and return to her life wasn't reason to take a few days off, then what was? May was her new favorite month; Tuesday was her new favorite day. It seemed as if all her plans were coming to fruition, and nothing could go wrong.

They were several blocks away from Meade Publications, still, but he paused. "I should let you go on alone after this, shouldn't I?"

"Probably that's for the best. But I won't work late this evening." Willie gave him a sloe-eyed look. "At least, not at the office."

His sly grin was hotter than hell. "You angel."

And then she felt the third party – the way she would've felt a cloud between her and the sunshine. She and Connor looked over at once to see Daniel Meade, who had picked one hell of a day to pick up his own lunch. Daniel's rising indignation would've looked absurd had it not been matched by Connor. They were like two fighting cockerels placed in the same ring: strutting, ridiculous and yet utterly ready to kill.

"Who the hell did you bribe, Connor?" Daniel glared at him so fiercely that, for a moment, Wilhelmina could see the shadow of Bradford in him – long-buried, but capable of rising to the surface. "That's all I want to know. Which law did you break this time to get your way?"

"Don't come preaching to me about morality." Connor led with his jaw, as if he were begging Daniel to take a punch and give him an excuse to fight dirty. "You're no better than I am and you know it."

"You were my friend. I trusted you with my company, and you stole me blind!"

"Only after you stole my fiancée!"

Good God. This was about Molly. Even now – all this time later – Connor was still furious about Molly.

Daniel's blue eyes blazed with anger. Their confrontation was beginning to draw attention … and this on the streets of Manhattan, where the locals prided themselves on walking past virtually anything without turning their heads. "People can't be stolen, Connor. Molly made a choice. She chose me. She loved me, and I loved her more than you can possibly imagine. Maybe more than a selfish bastard like you can love anyone."

"And yet you're the one who let her die."

Wilhelmina sucked in a breath. "Connor," she said sharply. "Don't be absurd."

Daniel was shaking his head slowly in disbelief. "I don't even know you anymore."

"I never knew you at all," Connor shot back.

Sharply, she grabbed his arm. "Let it go, Connor. Or I'm letting you go. Here and now."

Although Daniel's eyes never left Connor, never broke that glare, he said, "Wilhelmina, I don't know what the hell you're doing with this guy, but I expect an explanation."

"Sorry, Daniel. I don't explain my love life to you. But I promise you this – Connor's not coming anywhere near your company. Or anything else that's yours, ever again." She glared at her lover. "Not if he wants to come near me ever again."

Connor's anger was now divided between her and Daniel, she could tell; he looked down at the sidewalk, attempting with difficulty to control himself. When she was no longer looking at his face, she could see past him to a figure on the corner: Betty, standing there in a raspberry colored dress that was distinctly not horrible, and an expression that looked like the exact mirror of Wilhelmina's distress.

In fact, Wilhelmina hadn't realized how lost and sick this whole confrontation made her feel until she'd seen it mirrored on Betty's face.

Betty clutched her yellow bag closer to her body and hurried off; odd, that she wouldn't come rushing to her darling Daniel's side right away, but that was the least of Wilhelmina's concerns. She said to Daniel, "I'm headed into the office. We'll meet about the cover this afternoon."

"Nice of you to finally show up," Daniel snarled, which was laughable coming from someone who had once regularly blown off editorial meetings during playoffs season. But he walked in another direction, not looking back, apparently willing to get something else for lunch.

That left her and Connor alone. He said, quietly, "I can't believe you took that sniveling idiot's side."

"I can't believe you're still licking your wounds over Molly."

Their eyes met. Nothing he could have said would have disturbed her as much as the fact that he said nothing.

Finally she asked, "You'll be at home tonight?"

"Of course." Then Connor kissed her so hard that for a moment Wilhelmina could pretend none of it had ever happened – that nothing had come between them, or could.

**oooooo**

Betty's "lunch" was her job interview at the NEW YORK REVIEW OF BOOKS. Her resume was even better than it had been last time, and they'd liked her last time, they said. They were in a hurry to find someone, too. Jodie's lackluster work performance and increasingly erratic behavior meant whoever came in could expect to have to catch up on a lot of work in short order. Late-night research had told Betty what some of that work was likely to be, and so she was able to rattle off suggestions that impressed them.

Good thing she'd spent last night studying this so hard that she could do it cold. Because up until the moment she'd walked in to greet the editor, her mind had been far too focused on something else._ Someone_ else. Daniel.

She knew she ought to have thanked him profusely for what he'd done for her father. Her gratitude was real, and deep … so deep it scared her.

And, horribly, made her resentful.

It was hard enough getting up the courage to leave MODE before this. Given how close she and Daniel had become, having him do this one more tremendous thing – it almost felt as if he were trying to_ buy_ her. That was absurd; she knew he had no intention of doing anything like that. And yet that was how it felt.

How dare she quit Meade Publications? How dare she think of walking away from MODE, when Daniel had been so boundlessly good to her? How dare she hesitate, even for a moment, when he wanted their friendship to become something more?

The poison of it had crept into her blood, into her heart. She doubted his sincerity. She doubted her own. What if all the warmth she felt toward him was because of the way he'd been so generous to her lately – staying with her at the hospital, coming over after the mugging, buying her the new necklace?

And then seeing him arguing with Connor had added a whole new level of uncertainty. _I loved her more than you can possibly imagine_, Daniel had shouted, every fiber of his being defending the marriage he'd had with Molly. That marriage had only ended because Molly had died. Hardly one year had passed since then. Was it absurd to expect him to love her … to love anyone the same way, so soon? And was anything less than that kind of love worth risking their friendship for?

The logical part of her was at war with the emotional part of her, but neither part was sure enough of itself to win.

Betty kept herself focused throughout the NYRB interview, but no sooner was she in the elevator on her way back down than the confusion flooded back in and took her mind over. She clutched her yellow bag (complete with idea folder) to her chest as she walked back toward the subway. On a park bench nearby sat Jodie Papadakis, hair unkempt and a bottle of vodka in her hand, making obscene gestures in her general direction. Betty tried to ignore her.

Her phone rang, and at first she welcomed it as a distraction – but then she saw it was Daniel. "Hello?"

"Hey, you." His voice was like a shadow of his cheer over the past few weeks. "Missed you at lunch. You won't believe who I ran into. Connor."

So, he hadn't seen her at all. He'd been so caught up in fighting about Molly that he hadn't even glimpsed her standing not 15 feet away. "That had to suck, Daniel."

"It seriously did. I don't know what Wilhelmina's thinking. She swears she's keeping it all out of the office, but – I don't know." He sighed heavily. "So I was trying to think about more cheerful things, which made me think about Newport this weekend."

"Of course! You invited me to Newport – for the weekend – where we take the helicopter out and all the – yeah." Betty felt stupid repeating all of that, but it was the only way she could think to stall. "I still need to check with my family. Things have been kind of hectic for them with, you know, Justin's whole romantic situation. And all of that."

"And Bobby and Hilda romancing each other to the Three Tenors," Daniel joked, but she could feel the tension beneath the surface. Obviously he didn't understand why she hadn't started talking about this right away with them; if she was excited, wouldn't she have done that? And she'd meant to … up until the moment she heard about the paying of Papi's bills. The weird awkwardness between them that had taken root Monday morning had only become stronger.

"I'll let you know tomorrow! I promise!"

"Okay. Okay, then. Tomorrow. Fantastic."

"Fabulous. See you this afternoon!" Betty knew she was chirping too brightly, but she didn't know what else to do.

As she slipped her phone back into her bag, she decided to walk the rest of the way back to MODE. It was a long hike, and she was wearing her highest heels, but she needed time to clear her head.

More time, she decided, than a Memorial Day weekend allowed.

That evening, late enough that she knew Daniel had already left for the day, she finally got up the nerve to text him: _I don't think this weekend is going to work._

_Really? You can't get away? _

_I have responsibilities to my family, Daniel. You should remember that. _ And that was like scolding him, which was unfair; he'd understood the situation and asked if she could negotiate the time away. She could negotiate the time away. But her good sense just vanished when Daniel was too close to her.

_Well, fine_, he replied. Which was less than gracious. Betty wasn't sure whether she blamed him for that or not. She wasn't sure of anything.

Wearily she laid her head on her desk and hoped like hell she got that NYRB job.

**oooooo**

_What did I do wrong_? Daniel wondered as he walked from the car to the heliport that Friday afternoon. Betty had gone from the warm, cuddly, affectionate woman he'd almost kissed a week ago to a distant stranger … and all because he'd done her family a favor? That didn't make any sense.

He could have asked her about it, of course. Tried to talk directly about the distance between them and deal with it like an adult. But Daniel knew that wasn't exactly his strong suit.

Now he was stuck spending Memorial Day weekend alone with his family. And Yoga.

"Yolanda Ribera's what I go by these days," she said, briefly flashing a Spanish passport laden with stamps and visas. "Born in upstate New York to a father from Madrid and a mother from the Bahamas. A Bahamas banking family, I usually add. Perks their ears up."

"The fake documents are perfect." Mom just seemed way too thrilled by Yoga's ingenuity, given that it was being used to break the law. "But how do you manage the fake money?"

"The money's not fake any longer." Yoga strode along easily among them. Her hair was now cut only an inch long so that it grazed her scalp in a sophisticated short cut; her clothes could've been part of a MODE center spread. "That Madoff scam? Part of the reason it came to light is because I caught onto his game and scammed him right back. There's as many crooks in high society as there are in the Bronx, Fish. The only difference is, most of you high society types are stupider about catching on. Basically, I've been doing a little Robin Hood action. Taking from the rich grifters to make sure this poor lady doesn't have to grift any more. Formerly poor, I should say."

"The Robin Hood of the hoi polloi," Tyler said with a grin. Then again, he'd been wearing that grin all week, while being pretty much surgically attached to the besotted Amanda, so no wonder he was just eating up Yoga's whole story. "I like it. Shows style."

Yoga shrugged as she slipped on her oversized Chanel sunglasses. "It's a living. And it beats the hell out of jail."

"Well, you've been rich longer than me," Tyler said, "so you can show me how to make the transition. Four months ago, I was tending bar. Now I'm walking to our private helipad."

"Being rich rocks," Amanda added. "I could so get used to this. Not that I love you for your money, honey. I mean, it does bring out your cheekbones. But that's all."

Tyler just squeezed her around the shoulders. "I know."

So Amanda was happy. Tyler was happy. Yoga was happy. Mom was positively glowing. Daniel felt like the Memorial Day grinch, which was not even a real thing and thus doubly pathetic.

As they belted into the helicopter, he thought, _Why didn't I just try to talk to Betty? Even if she couldn't come – even if she's changed her mind about me – we could've talked it through. After a long weekend apart, it's going to be harder. _The thought of maybe losing Betty because of a three-day delay made his heart hurt.

His distraction continued until the helicopter rose into the air – and then he frowned. Daniel looked up quickly at his mother, who had tensed in his seat.

"Oh, my God, we can look down at all the little people," Amanda said. "I wish I'd brought stuff to throw. Hey, why are you guys acting all weird?"

Tyler added, "Yeah, what's up?"

"This feels … wrong." Daniel didn't know any better way to put it than that. It was like the helicopter wasn't as steady as it ought to have been. As if they were fighting high winds, though it was a totally clear day. Then the entire copter shifted, sending them jerking hard to one side.

"Hey, up there, we okay?" Yoga shouted to the pilots, which was the first time any of them realized how busy the pilots were trying to stabilize the helicopter. And failing.

The helicopter began sloping forward, sharper and sharper. Amanda screamed, and his mother's hand clutched his arm, and the Hudson River below them zoomed up faster and faster, until the smash that turned his world dark.


	9. Down To Earth, Part Two

_OK,_ Betty thought, _I'll just text Daniel that – I hope he's having a good flight out to Newport. That's okay, right? _

No. That would just be a reminder than she hadn't gone out there with him.

_How about, Have a sensational weekend?_

Without her. Did that sound like she hoped he wasn't interested in her? _Should_ it sound like that? It wasn't true, but … God, when had it become so hard to just tell Daniel the truth?

"Aunt Betty!" Justin called from the front room. The entire family had gathered at Papi's home for Memorial Day weekend for cookouts and game night and a whole lot of other stuff that would have sounded more fun if she hadn't been comparing it to snuggling with Daniel on the beach. "Is there any salsa?"

"Let me check!" she called as she stopped standing in the kitchen, waiting for text-message inspiration to strike, and looked in the fridge. Yes on salsa. Betty walked toward the cabinets to find a bowl for it and jumped when her phone buzzed in her hand – which made her drop it in the sink.

The sink that was filled with water and soaking dishes, with her phone now drifting toward the bottom.

Groaning, Betty fished the phone out, but already the screen was filled with nonsense characters. She grabbed a bag of rice from the cupboards and quickly immersed her phone in it; that was supposed to work sometimes, absorbing all the moisture from the phone and restoring it, but she had a bad feeling about this. "Great," she muttered."

"Aunt Betty!" Justin called again.

"I'm still working on the salsa, okay?"

Hilda appeared in the kitchen doorway. "Betty?"

Betty turned. "Jeez, what is it with you guys and the munchies … today …" Her voice trailed off as she saw the expression Hilda wore. "Is Dad all right?"

"He's fine. But – on the news – they're talking about Daniel."

Why would they be talking about Daniel? Betty's mind initially turned to some kind of sex scandal – experience had taught her to go there first – but she knew that couldn't be right, not least because of how pale Hilda's face was.

She abandoned both rice and phone and ran to the front room, where, on Fashion TV, Suzuki St. Pierre was doing his best to look grave and serious while wearing a canary-yellow coat and fuchsia ascot.

"Although reports are still muddled, we have verified that the Meade family helicopter plunged into the Hudson River approximately half an hour ago. Confirmed to be among the passengers: HOT FLASH power-broker Claire Meade, MODE editor and playboy emeritus Daniel Meade, and recently discovered illegitimate spawn-slash-burgeoning male supermodel Tyler Hamill. Who else was aboard? Nobody knows! Nobody cares! No word on any survivors. Does this mean longtime editrix-in-waiting Wilhelmina Slater will be wearing black – sequins to her coronation as fashion's new queen? Stay tuned!"

Betty clapped her hands to her mouth, holding back a cry. The pain was more than emotional; it was physical too, cramping her gut, making her knees watery and her throat tighten. Her father looked so shaken that she feared for his health, but he said only, "Oh, my God. Betty, is this true?"

"I don't know! But – but they were going to Newport. They were taking the helicopter." But it couldn't be. Daniel couldn't be gone, just like that. The last words they exchanged couldn't be a few cranky test messages.

Yet – a helicopter falling into the Hudson – how could anyone survive that?

For one horrible moment she was overcome by a terrible image – Daniel trapped in his seat, water flooding up all around him, unable to escape, so scared, so doomed –

"I have to get out of here," she said, grabbing her purse. "I'm going into MODE. They'll know something there before anyone else."

"Go on! Call us when you know something!" Hilda hugged Betty briefly, obviously not wanting to hold her sister back. "We're all praying hard."

Betty nodded, grateful, but what good could prayers do now? If Daniel had gone down in the crash … then by now, he was almost certainly dead.

On shaky legs, she ran to the corner with the gypsy cabs – but on a holiday weekend, they were all busy, and soon she gave up and dashed to the subway. Nobody would be able to call her there, but since her phone was sitting on Dad's kitchen counter, ruined, it hardly mattered. Betty took her seat in a far corner and ignored the buskers, a mariachi band whose bright tunes seemed to be mocking her despair.

_Daniel, lying next to her in the recliner while they listened to "As Time Goes By," his body warm against hers. _

_Daniel, dancing with her at Hilda's wedding,telling her to cherish the moments when everything seemed right in the world. _

_Daniel, joking around with her on the beach in the Bahamas, his white linen shirt sharp against the deep blue ocean beyond. _

_Daniel, comforting her after she'd found Jesse making out with Amanda, taking her into his arms and telling her she was beautiful. _

_Daniel, walking along the runway with her after Fashion Week's show was done, their arms linked. _

_Daniel, standing with her on the Brooklyn Bridge as they gazed at the city lights side by side. _

_Daniel, coming to her house for the first time to humbly apologize and beg for a second chance. _

A second chance. That was all she wanted. Just one more chance to tell him the truth, even just to see Daniel's face once again.

**oooooo**

"No, we have no comment at this time." Marc hung up on the eighteenth reporter in three minutes. How did he end up with the job of press liaison? Probably by being the most senior person to get stuck working late on the Friday of Memorial Day weekend.

He'd only done it to have a better chance at some Cliff time; rumor had spread through the photo studio that HUDSON had to work extra hours to meet deadline, so Marc had made sure MODE would too. This hadn't made him the most popular guy among the rest of the staffers, but he planned to buy a round of drinks for them all at the end, which would repair a lot of the damage. Up until thirty minutes ago, his plan had seemed foolproof. Cliff had in fact been working. They'd relaxed a little around each other, and chatted a bit about the latest HUDSON setup (fake coral reefs everywhere), and Marc was beginning to detect a definite thaw – and then someone had started screaming that the Meades had all been killed in a helicopter crash.

Bad enough. But Marc knew what Fashion TV didn't: Amanda had been on the helicopter too.

So now he was using the photo studio as a kind of operations control center, fielding phone calls from reporters and worried staffers, and using three work laptops to watch the news and TMZ. He sort of wished he weren't watching TMZ – they were now running a story about someone having found a "body part" in the river, which was so gruesome that Marc found it hard to remember that this sort of thing washed up in the Hudson all the time.

_C'mon!_ he thought to himself. _It could be a sloppier-than-usual mob hit! Doesn't have to be from the helicopter crash. _

_Right? _

Wilhelmina hadn't called in yet, which was odd. Or maybe not so odd, given that she'd just gotten her favorite Australian back Down Under her. Marc knew he should tell her the news, but actually saying that they might be dead – that Amanda might be dead –

Well, he didn't know anything solid yet. So he'd hang on for now.

A coffee cup appeared next to him, and Marc looked up to see Cliff standing there. Cliff shrugged. "Thought you could use it. Looks like you're in a world of suck."

"So that's where I am. I thought it looked familiar." Marc took a deep swallow of the latte – one sugar, just the way he liked it. He would have reveled in the fact that Cliff remembered if he'd felt any less miserable.

"You seem really torn up about this," Cliff said, leaning against the desk. "I mean, yeah, this is terrible – but you never seemed to like the Meades all that much."

Marc had become fond of Claire despite himself – anybody who could stand up to Wilhelmina like that had big brass ones that clanked together when she walked. A few months of working as Daniel's assistant had convinced him that the guy was pretty deeply okay, if more decorative than functional. Tyler liked to get up early in the morning and make cinnamon rolls for everyone in Amanda's apartment, which pretty much gave him the all-time favorite Meade award, hands down. But Marc didn't feel so small and sick inside on their behalf, and he knew it.

"They're good people, in their own demented way. But it wasn't just the Meades on the trip. Amanda was with them."

"Amanda?" Cliff's eyes widened. "Your Amanda?"

Just the fact that he put it like that broke through Marc's last defense. He put his head into his hand, struggling against the urge to cry. _His _Amanda. His giddy, silly, selfish, hilarious, beautiful, loving best friend in the whole world. Was she gone?

Cliff put one hand on Marc's shoulder. "Hey. Hang in there. We don't know anything yet, right?"

"Right." His voice came out as a choked whisper, but Cliff must have understood, because his grip on Marc tightened.

Then someone across the studio screamed again, and Marc looked up in panic, expecting to see a news report declaring them all dead, or police officers seeking people to ID bodies, or something similarly grotesque.

Instead he saw Amanda, soaked and filthy, her sundress stained with god knew what and her damp hair plastered to her head. Mascara streaks lined both her cheeks.

She said, "The Hudson River is totally gross."

Marc hadn't known he could vault high enough to jump over a desk, but he could, and he did, and he didn't stop running until he had Amanda in his arms again.

**oooooo**

It turned out that helicopters could float, or at least they would float for a couple of minutes, which was long enough for seven extremely panicked people to get out. Daniel was pretty sure Amanda had stepped on his face once, but he didn't blame her; he had been willing to stepon some faces too, and might have done.

He couldn't be sure because he'd whacked his head when they hit the water – not hard enough to knock him unconscious, exactly, but everything had gone sort of dark and fuzzy there for a few seconds. The images all blurred together in his mind, in no particular order; it was like looking at a box of photographs with no captions and no clear narrative. Daniel remembered the cold water rushing over his legs – fumbling for his seat belt – the horrible jarring reverberation as the still-spinning rotors continued to thrash the water for a few seconds – his mother stroking through the river like a championship swimmer – Amanda shouting for Tyler – Yoga grabbing Daniel's jacket by the collar and towing him from the chopper – the pilot's hat bobbing on the waves.

_Betty! _Daniel had looked for her desperately, clinging to the chopper door until Yoga yanked him free. Only after that had he remembered she wasn't with them, that she was safe and well and dry somewhere else. Then he had started swimming – or was that when he'd grabbed one of the seat cushions, which turned out to be just as good flotation devices as stewardesses had always claimed? He couldn't be certain.

All of it was just that disjointed and confusing until the moment they'd been hauled up from the river by a tourist cruise boat that fortunately had been sailing only a few dozen feet away. Then Daniel had some very clear memories of lying on the deck, panting for breath, as a Japanese tour group took pictures of him.

As soon as he'd been able to sit upright, he'd insisted that they return to MODE.

"We need to go to a hospital," Mom had said, stroking his wet hair back from his face. "You're developing a black eye, which means you hit your head, which means doctor. Now. The rest of us could stand to get checked out too."

"If it looks like we're out of commission for even ten minutes, Wilhelmina's going to make a power grab. Now that she's got Connor – Mom, we have to get in there. Put in an appearance, put out a press statement. That's all."

Mentioning Connor Owens had darkened his mother's expression, and now they were all back at MODE. Staffers crowded around, murmuring their relief, and Amanda and Marc were now even more connected at the hip than usual. Daniel knew he looked like hell; he knew this from seeing his mother's muddy coif or Yoga's ruined linen suit. Tyler had a nasty bruise along his jaw, plus a cut lip – but nobody was asking him how he was feeling. They were all asking Daniel instead. That meant he probably looked like he'd dug his way out of his own grave. Well, it felt that way too.

Mom decided to take charge of composing the press release along with Marc, and Daniel took the list of necessary media outlets to call. Almost on autopilot, he went into his office, not even bothering to turn on the lights.

He knew that Tyler was calling Alexis in France; it was late enough there that she and DJ were probably both asleep, but better to wake them with good news than let them hear internet rumors and freak out.

So first, before anyone else, he called Betty. Voicemail. "Hey. It's me. Listen – we're fine. Banged up, but fine. Call me when you get this, okay?" He hesitated, wanting to add so much more, but then he hung up. The rest could wait for when they spoke again. This time, he swore, he wasn't wasting any time being awkward or working around the subject; when he and Betty next talked, he was telling her the truth.

Then – CNN. ABC. CBS. NBC. Fox. Daniel went through the spiel – _mechanical error, pilots very brave and saved everyone, no major injuries, Meade Publications running as usual_ – over and over again. He didn't even have to think about it after the first couple times; this left his mind free to wander. It went back and forth between that moment of confused terror when he'd thought Betty was in the water to the fact that Wilhelmina wasn't here trying to take over.

Did that mean he could actually trust Wilhelmina, even if she had Connor in her life?

As he hung up the phone from the final call, Daniel rose from his chair, surprised at how much his body ached. Whiplash, he realized. And probably more bruises besides the black eye that made the whole side of his face tender. Mom's idea about the hospital didn't suck.

Then he heard a familiar voice calling out, "Anyone? Is anybody still here? Have you heard anything?"

"Betty!" Daniel called. "I'm here."

A gasp so loud he could hear it from the hallway – then she appeared in the doorway of his darkened office, her jaw open, staring at him in clear disbelief. Voice trembling, she whispered, "Daniel?"

"Yeah. It's okay. We're okay."

Betty ran toward him, crushing him in an embrace so tight it made his battered body hurt, but he didn't care. Daniel wrapped his arms around her, kissed her forehead, breathed her in. He told himself was safe, now. With Betty here, he could never be anything but safe.

"Oh, my God. Daniel. I thought you were – the news reports said – " She was sobbing now, the way she had at the hospital after her father's heart attack. "You're alive. You're really alive."

"I called you – I left a message – Jesus, Betty, I'm sorry; I didn't want you to be afraid."

"I didn't get the message." Her gulped breaths as she cried turned almost into a hiccup. "I dropped my phone in the dishwater."

Daniel laughed once, knowing he was on the brink of tears himself. "Shhh. I'm all right. Everybody's all right. Thank God you weren't there."

"I wanted to be with you – I should have come with you – "

Betty was falling apart, and Daniel realized that seeing her fear was forcing him to confront his own. Shakily, he led her toward the chaise longue in his office so they could both sit. She wound herself around him – arms around his shoulders, knees in his lap, her face nestled in the curve of his neck – and Daniel hugged her tightly, trying to comfort her and take comfort from her at once.

"I looked for you," he whispered. "In the water. I didn't remember you weren't with us, for a moment. Scared me worse than the crash."

Betty wiped tears from her cheeks with her open palms, as guileless and endearing as a crying child. "The whole trip in from Queens, I was thinking – I've lost him, I've lost him, and I never even told him what he means to me." Just hearing her say that much sent him reeling; Daniel kissed her temples, her hair – kissed the tearstains away from her cheeks. Every kiss made his lips ache – they must be bruised and swollen too – but he just didn't care. She gasped as she brought two fingers up to the puffiness around his eye, and he winced. "Daniel, you're hurt."

"It's just a bump." As he brushed her hair back from her forehead, he smiled at her, almost weak with relief and love. "I'm fine. I have to be. I'm with you."

And there was that glorious smile, the one that made the pain go away and the summer sunset turn into dawn. Slowly Betty lifted her face to his, tilting her head so that her lips pressed against the edge of his swollen black eye. The touch against such sensitive skin almost hurt, and yet he felt as if that kiss ought to have healed him.

It hadn't, though, because a wave of dizziness swept through him, and he had to grip Betty's shoulders tighter to remain upright.

"You're not fine," Betty said, and like that she was up from the chaise, out of his arms. "Hello? Someone? We need to get Daniel to a doctor!"

Mom appeared instantly. Sick children were to mothers what the Bat-Signal was to Bruce Wayne. "That's it. We're going to the hospital to get checked out. All of us."

Betty hugged his mother, too, though only quickly. "Come on. I'll help you walk him down. Are you sure you're all right?"

"I broke the heels on my new Louboutins, and this blow-out was only hours old." Mom gestured at her head as Betty helped Daniel rise to his feet. "Other than that, I'd have to say I came through fine." She hesitated. "Peeing your pants in terror doesn't count if you're in the water at the time, right?"

"Right." Betty nodded. "Absolutely."

_That's a relief,_ Daniel thought.

He slid his arm around Betty's shoulders and leaned against her the whole way along the Tube, only partly for support. Mostly he just liked the warmth of her against his chilled body, and the knowledge that he had her next to him at last.

They had one more chance; he wasn't going to waste it.

**oooooo**

Wilhelmina awoke splayed across the foot of her own bed, as naked as Connor, who still dozed upon the pillows. Unorthodox, yes – but not nearly as much as the position they'd been in not long before falling asleep. With a smile and a lazy stretch, she rose from her satin sheets and strolled toward the kitchen. She'd take the fresh strawberries from the fridge, open a bottle of champagne, and take them back in the bedroom to awaken Connor for a snack and round two. No, round three, if you counted lunchtime.

Good God, this man made her crazy, in good ways and in bad. As long as the good was this good, she intended to hang on tight.

When she walked into the kitchen, she glanced down at her countertop to see that she'd left her phone there … a sign of how deeply Connor had distracted her. Normally she kept it near her at all times, monitoring everything she could. But after all, it was the Friday evening of Memorial Day weekend. How many people could have urgent messages for her?

Wilhelmina picked up the phone to see that she had 187 new emails, mostly from news outlets, and that Marc had attempted to call her five times.

_Shit. _She hit dialback for Marc's number immediately. What was it this time? Had their cover model for the latest issue been arrested? Had Daniel reacted to seeing her with Connor by firing her? Or – please, God, no – had something happened to Nico?

The moment Marc picked up, he said, "False alarm!"

"False alarm for what?"

"Have you not been near any media for the last few hours?"

"Unless my vibrator counts as media, no! Marc, what's going on?"

"The Meades' helicopter crashed on takeoff, but everyone's okay. I mean, wet, and their hair was like, day-one-Betty bad, but they're fine. Amanda and Tyler even want to go out for drinks tomorrow. I mean, they could probably use a stiff one after that, right?"

"Good Lord." Wilhelmina took a deep breath. "I assume you've issued a statement in my name expressing my profound gratitude that none of those morons went to a watery grave?"

"Written up, going out as soon as you give the word."

"It's given. I don't need to see it. You know how to make those things sound sincere."

"Then consider it done! Want to send some flowers? I don't know what's appropriate for a congrats-on-not-dying gift." Marc hesitated. "I'm sorry, but … vibrator? I thought you and Connor …"

"Real men aren't afraid of technology, Marc. Send a plant over to Claire. Something enormous, extravagant and difficult to care for." She grabbed the champagne, though it now felt less like a pleasure and more like a necessity. "Good work staying on top of this. Call me if you hear anything else."

"What else would there be to hear?" He sounded puzzled. She didn't blame him. It was hard for her to admit, even to herself, what she meant.

"It's only Friday, Marc. From the looks of things, this Memorial Day weekend might be a long one."

Wilhelmina hung up, opened the champagne, and took a swig straight out of the bottle. Then she walked back into the bedroom. "Connor. Wake up."

He stirred drowsily. When he saw her, the grin that spread across his face was so loving, so incredibly hot, that she nearly lost her resolve. Any other woman would have.

But she was Wilhelmina Slater.

"The Meades' helicopter crashed," she said. "They're all alive. I want to know if that's no thanks to you."

Connor frowned as he sat up. "What? Crash – Jesus. Wilhelmina, what are you asking me?"

"You know what I'm asking." She planted the champagne bottle on the bedside table and folded her arms. "Was that helicopter accident _really_ an accident?"

His expression darkened. "Are you accusing me of attempted murder?"

"Call it a conversation. It's not an accusation if I brought you champagne."

"You ought to have realized before now that I didn't do it, Willie." Connor took a swallow of the champagne, then finished, "If I wanted Daniel Meade dead, he would be."

"Wrong answer." Wilhelmina leaned over him; he might be a man, and a young, fit, dangerous one at that, but if he thought he was the most intimidating person in this relationship, it was high time he learned different. "I told you before: The Meades and I have come to a truce. They don't plot against me; I don't plot against them. I have higher ambitions than they're going to fulfill, but that doesn't mean I'm going to scheme my way to the top. I intend to find my own path. Are you with me? Or are you against them? Because you have to choose, Connor. One or the other. Now."

For a long moment, he looked up at her, and it seemed to Wilhelmina that he was more vulnerable then than she'd ever seen him – except perhaps their first night, when he had come to her fresh from Molly's abandonment, naked with pain and with desire for her. Revenge and love were warring inside him, she could tell, and she had no damn idea who the winner would be.

Finally, he said, "Willie – I'll let it go."

"And that means –?"

"I won't act against the Meades again. I promise."

"You've broken your word before."

Connor rose from the bed and took her in his arms. His grip was fierce, his gaze intense. "On my love for you, Wilhelmina. I swear it."

They kissed, long and deep, and Wilhelmina found herself pulling him down to the bed to cover her again. His touch blinded her to everything else in the world …

… and even the fact that he'd said he wouldn't go after the Meades "again" soon felt very far away.

**oooooo**

As the limo pulled up, Betty gazed again at Daniel; the bruising on his face had worsened, and tomorrow he'd probably look like the losing boxer in a prizefight.

He'd never been more beautiful to her. Daniel was here, alive, well; that second chance she'd prayed for had arrived. She was going to tell him everything, absolutely everything, and then they'd work it all out. It had been stupid to let awkwardness and uncertainty cost her even one second with him. At that moment, Betty felt like she would rather have taken her chances and plunged into the water along with Daniel than have been apart from him during something so terrifying.

Well, maybe that was taking it a bit far. Instead she'd wish that Daniel had stayed put in New York with her.

"Damn, that was worse than my last trip to Buenos Aires," Yoga said as she wearily slid into the back seat. "Remind me to tell you about it, Fish. I barely got out of there with the emeralds."

"You know how to get shiny things," Amanda said as she crawled in behind Yoga. "I like you."

Tyler hesitated. "You get in next, bro. You should face forward, because frankly, right now, it looks like you might hurl once we get moving."

"I'm okay," Daniel promised. His grip around Betty's shoulders tightened, and she thought maybe he just didn't want to let go of her. "Go ahead."

Claire patted her son's shoulder, but gingerly, clearly fearful of hurting him farther. "I think you got the worst of it, sweetheart."

"A concussion. A black eye. I can deal." Daniel was trying very hard, Betty could tell; Mr. Sickington would no doubt rather have been curled beneath a blanket whimpering around now, and she wouldn't have blamed him.

As Claire got in, Betty took Daniel's hands in hers. "I'm going to head over to your apartment. You're still in the old place, right?"

"What? Yeah, the movers don't come until next week." Daniel smiled, then winced, no doubt from the bruises near his mouth. "Betty – as much as I like the idea of coming home to you – and I like it a _lot_ – tonight I don't know if I could, uh, do much."

"Don't get too excited … yet." She stroked the less-injured side of his face tenderly. "You almost certainly have a concussion. That means somebody needs to stay at your place tonight and wake you up every two hours. So I'll do that. In the morning, when you're in the clear and feeling better, we'll – talk."

He looked boyishly happy. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Betty wanted to kiss him, but the first time shouldn't be in a parking garage that smelled like motor oil, or when his face was so banged up her touch would hurt. Instead she lifted one of his hands to her mouth and pressed her lips to his palm. Daniel curved his fingers around her chin, almost a caress, and the look they shared then was gentler than most kisses she'd ever had.

Then she got him into the limo and watched them drive away for a long moment before heading to his place.

She went ahead and walked it; the night was nice, and this way she could check in with everyone at home. They'd already heard that the Meades were alive via Fashion TV, and Justin was positively gleeful as he described the media frenzy over a "body part" in the water that turned out to be a plastic arm from a mannequin. Everyone seemed to take it as a given that she'd return to Queens in the morning, rather than tonight. Nobody questioned why, exactly, which was good. Betty wanted to keep this close for a while yet. All the emotion in her heart she needed to pour out to Daniel – he should be the first one to hear it.

Daniel had given her spare keys to the apartment during Molly's final illness; she'd picked up stuff for them and brought it to the hospital, sometimes. Surprisingly, for a guy who could afford to have others handle every aspect of his move, he'd packed several boxes, taken the pictures down from the walls. Betty couldn't stifle a smile as she saw his writing on the cardboard, magic marker letters in a scrawl: _Winter Coats. Cookware. Ski Gear. _

_Molly. _

Well, Betty already knew what was in that box; she'd helped him pack it months ago. Some cards her class had made – first get-well cards for Molly, then notes for Daniel about how much they had loved her. A bracelet he'd given Molly during their only Christmas together. The T-shirt she wore for Sunday morning crossword puzzles and a croissant.

It was stupid to be jealous of a dead woman, and she wasn't, exactly – but Betty couldn't forget the intensity in Daniel's voice as he'd defended his love for her in that fight with Connor Owens.

_We'll talk about it_, she reminded herself. _We're going to talk about everything in the morning. If there's anything for me to worry about, I'll know then. And I'm sure there's nothing to worry about. _ A small smile played at her lips as she thought, _Seeing how much he loved Molly just shows me how much capacity he has to love. _

A check of the fridge revealed he was well-stocked on food and drink. (Good stuff, too – actual vegetables and fruit, plus Greek yogurt: It was the kind of fridge that made Betty think guiltily of the Cheetohs and Cap'n Crunch back at her place.) His bed wasn't made, but the sheets must have been fresh; they still smelled clean and bright.

For a moment she considered simply sliding between the covers to wait for him – but no. He was injured and no doubt exhausted. The time for … talking would be in the morning.

This meant that, despite her crazy need to be with Daniel, to do something for him right away, Betty really couldn't act until he returned home. So she grabbed his laptop (of course he would leave his work laptop at home over Memorial Day Weekend) to catch up on Facebook or otherwise while away the time. She cruised by her email first – and sat upright on the sofa.

The first unread message was from the editor she'd interviewed with at the NEW YORK REVIEW OF BOOKS.

Hardly daring to breathe, Betty clicked the message and read:

_Betty – tried to give you a ring early this evening but didn't get through. Something about the phone being out of service? Anyway, as you must have realized during our interview, we're in a terrible rush to get someone in place, which is why I'm reaching out to you even on Memorial Day Weekend. _

_The job is yours. We're thrilled you're joining us as an Associate Editor! _

_I recall that you said during your interview you would insist on a full two weeks' notice for MODE, and your loyalty does you credit. But we do need you posthaste, so if you could give notice at the end of Memorial Day Weekend, that would be ideal. Stacy in HR will be sending you more information about our health plan, etc., but in the meantime I think all there is to say is, "Welcome Aboard!" _

_Jackson Noble, Managing Editor, NYRB_

"I got the job," Betty whispered. "I got the job!"

The future seemed to unfurl in front of her like a red carpet. The NEW YORK REVIEW OF BOOKS would give her the challenging, intellectual work she'd always craved. Her career was taking a big step forward. And Daniel – he would no longer be her boss. That freed him up to play another role in her life. A much better role.

Betty fell back on the couch, staring up happily at the ceiling, trying to figure out any way she could be any more delighted that she was at the moment. Nothing was coming to mind.

**oooooo**

What with the whole _holy crap our bosses might be dead!_ fracas to deal with, photography on the MODE and HUDSON shoots ran well into the night. By the time they were wrapping up, Marc had abandoned the idea of buying everyone a round of drinks that night and instead promised to do it the following Friday.

Weary though he was, he brightened when Cliff strolled his way. "So, tonight was kind of a roller coaster, huh?"

"One of the really scary ones in Dubai," Marc said. "Don't they have roller coasters there that break Mach 1?"

Cliff laughed. "If not, they must be working on them."

Maybe he wasn't too tired for a drink that night. Maybe Cliff wasn't averse to being asked out for one.

And then Marc's phone rang – once again, "Go West."

He looked up apologetically. "It's Betty's nephew. He's fresh out of the closet."

"Oh." Cliff looked startled, as well he might be; he thought they'd only met once, back when Justin was the size of a Hershey's Miniature. Sometimes even Marc found it hard to deal with the fact that Justin was now becoming a man. "Yeah, sure. Go ahead."

As Cliff began to walk off, Marc sighed, but answered the phone. "Hello, you would not believe the nonstop night of horror we've had here."

"I totally would," Justin said. "Can you believe Perez reported that mannequin arm? Hilarious."

"It'll be funny tomorrow. Today was – I need a vacation from today. Anything up, or is this a sympathy call for being the bait in a media feeding frenzy?"

"It's a sympathy call and something's up." After a long pause, Justin said, "In the middle of all this, I realized – the person I wanted to talk about it with the most was Austin. It's still Austin. So I phoned him."

Marc had to grin. "All is forgiven?"

"It's like you said – this is tough. It takes a while. The people I loved gave me a chance to figure things out. So now I should give him a chance, right?"

"I think it's worth a shot. Well, good for you, Malibu Skipper."

"He's coming over tomorrow. We're going to find the most hilarious sentences from all the stories and put together a mock obituary for Daniel. Do you think he'll think it's funny?"

"Give it a week or two. Then, sure."

"Hey, Marc?" Justin's smile could be heard in his voice. "Thanks for talking me down."

"Anytime."

When he hung up, Marc turned to his stuff – only to see that Cliff hadn't walked that far away after all. Cliff said, "You're mentoring the kid?"

"Please spare me any commentary on my qualifications as a mentor." With a sigh as he slid his iPad and folders into his case, Marc added, "But yeah. He's a good kid, you know?"

"And tonight, you were really more afraid for Amanda than worried about yourself." Cliff's appraisal was warmer now than it had been since they split. "You've changed, Marc. In a good way. I don't mean to be patronizing – crap, that was patronizing, huh?"

"Of course not," Marc said blithely. "You can only be talking about those final five pounds I managed to lose."

Cliff laughed as Marc strode off, trying not to let his delight radiate from him like sunbeams – and hoping Cliff would notice the five pounds, too, while he was getting a good look from behind.

Apparently this Heart of Kashmir thing worked differently than you expected … but it _worked_.

**oooooo**

The emergency room took forever, and they didn't tell Daniel anything he didn't know already: concussion, wake up every two hours, whiplash, etc. Yoga turned out to need some stitches in her shoulder – she'd been so stoic throughout the whole thing that he'd hardly realized she was injured. Mom stayed behind with her as Tyler and Amanda went back to Mom's house; as Amanda said, there was no way they were finishing that night by climbing the stairs to her walk-up.

The taxi got him home, though he was so drowsy the driver thought he was drunk and starting yelling at him not to vomit in the back seat. Daniel paid him, dragged his ass into the elevator, went through his front door –

-and saw Betty waiting for him, and then he was home.

"Daniel, you look exhausted." She wrapped her arms around him, careful of his injuries, but he squeezed her tightly. So what if it hurt? He had Betty back, and this time everything was going to work out the way it should have from the start. Against his chest, she said, "Bed, now."

"I like the way you think."

Her grin was even better at making the pain go away than the Vicodin he'd been given – though the Vicodin was pretty awesome too, and was he starting to sway on his feet. "Let's wait and get you a clean bill of health. Which means some rest, in bed, right away."

"Shower," he corrected her. "Right now I smell like the Hudson. Also I think my underwear might be growing to my skin."

She wrinkled her nose. "Shower. Yes."

Daniel had never been so aware of a woman while showering alone. The whole time he rinsed off in the steaming water – God, being clean had never felt so good – he kept thinking of Betty just outside the bathroom door, wishing she'd walk in, step into that shower with him, so he could touch her, feel her heart beat against his chest. Kiss her wet, open mouth.

But then he leaned his head against the tile wall for a second, realized he was dangerously close to falling asleep standing up, and decided Betty was right to wait for tomorrow.

That night was like the longest, strangest erotic dream he'd ever had. Betty walked him back to his bed, and he'd been this close to sitting up to kiss her – but then he'd fallen asleep harder and faster than the helicopter had fallen from the sky. He kept envisioning her near him, standing over him, leaning in for a kiss … and then she would be leaning down, but only to stir him awake.

Once he croaked, "You're having to wake up every two hours too."

"I don't mind," Betty said. "It's enough to be here with you."

Daniel took her hand then, so he could fall asleep holding it.

When he awoke again, he realized she was now lying next to him, only just stirring as the alarm on one of his watches went off. Betty wore one of his old T-shirts; her dark hair streamed across the pillow. She fumbled with the alarm, then looked over at him drowsily. "Still not dead?"

"Not yet."

"That's good." Betty smiled as she sank back onto the pillow. He so seldom saw her without her glasses that for a moment Daniel could only stare at her beautiful face.

Then she was asleep once more – by now probably at least as tired as he had been – and Daniel contented himself with placing one hand on her back. Amazing, what the warmth of her skin and the sound of her breathing could do to him. Just sleeping next to Betty was hotter than sex with some other women had been.

When he awoke again, early morning sunlight was filtering through the windows, and he was in the bed alone. Daniel pushed himself out of bed and padded into the living room, where Betty was once again dressed – but becomingly disheveled – as she worked on his laptop. Of course Betty would still work on the laptop during Memorial Day Weekend. "Hey there."

"You're up!" Betty pushed the laptop side instantly and hurried to him. "How do you feel?"

"Better than ever," Daniel swore – then winced. "Except my eye. It looks like hell, doesn't it?"

"Like you went to Taylor Momsen's makeup artist."

"That bad? Yow."

She glanced back toward the kitchen. "I could make us some cereal – scrambled eggs – maybe cinnamon toast."

"I'm not hungry." As if on cue, Daniel's stomach growled, and they both smiled. "Okay, I'm hungry. But it's not exactly the most important thing right now."

"No. It's not."

Daniel filled his hands with her dark hair, looked down at Betty and said softly, "I'm crazy about you."

It was amazing to actually see her melt a little, to know he could bowl her over the same way she did for him. "I'm crazy about you too."

He leaned forward, brushing his thumbs against her cheeks. "So – where do we go from here?"

The ideal answer would've been "to bed." The more likely answer, he figured, was a long talk about Relationships and Commitment and Understanding, all of which he was totally ready for, because it would give him the chance to tell Betty how much he adored her, from her boundlessly good heart down to her polka-dotted shoes.

Instead Betty said, "Well, first things first." And then she smiled up at him and said, "I'm leaving MODE."

And then the only thing Daniel could think was, _Oh, shit. _

END

_Next time on Ugly Betty, Season Five: "Fireworks." _

_(Songs: "Go West," Pet Shop Boys; "He Touched Me," Heather Headley; "Chocolate," Snow Patrol.)_


	10. Fireworks, Part One

**Fireworks**

Later on, Betty thought it all would have gone so much better if she hadn't been so incredibly happy.

But why would she ever have fought that feeling? She believed in joy as a kind of sacrament, something to be treasured for its own sake and shared whenever possible. So she could only think, when she told Daniel, that she was inviting him to feel as astonishingly, overwhelmingly great as she did at that moment. Two of her dearest dreams were coming true at once: Her lifelong wish for a job at a meaningful, substantive magazine, and the new feelings for Daniel that had awakened only a few weeks ago but already felt like a part of her.

And they'd just spent the night side by side. Maybe that tricked her into thinking they were closer than they were – or at least, close enough for him to instantly understand.

"I'm leaving MODE." Betty beamed at Daniel, who looked confused. That wasn't so bad. She'd expected him to look confused at first – but he'd get it.

Daniel rubbed the bruised side of his face, then winced, like he'd forgotten that would hurt. "Obviously I'm still kind of out of it. I heard you wrong."

Oh, no – what if his concussion really were serious? "What did you hear?"

"That you were leaving MODE."

"That's right! See, you're fine." Betty took his hand and towed him toward the sofa, where he sat almost obediently by her side. He still looked so groggy, so weary, that she wondered if maybe she could've waited an hour or two to get to this … particularly given the delicious direction things had been headed. Better make things clear quickly: "I interviewed for Jodie Papadakis' old job at the NEW YORK REVIEW OF BOOKS, and I got it! Don't worry; I'm giving two weeks' notice."

He just stared at her.

"Daniel? Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine," he said, but not convincingly. "Betty, I don't understand. Why would you leave now?"

"You know I've never wanted to spend my whole career at MODE – any more than you do."

"But now – right now when we're – " Daniel made some hand gestures which seemed to take in much more than the half-packed room they sat in. "I can't believe you didn't tell me any of this."

Which was maybe not a totally invalid point. For all the time she and Daniel had been spending together over the past few weeks – the intimate moments they'd shared – Betty knew she had kept this from him.

The not-unreasonable nature of this objection didn't seem to matter much to her at the moment, though. This was huge for her. Massive. Maybe the greatest single thing that had happened since Bradford Meade picked her to be Daniel's assistant almost four years ago. Betty wanted to dance in the streets, to sing to the skies. She'd wanted Daniel to join her in the celebration – and in so much more besides – and all he could do was sit there and stare like her getting a better job was something she'd done to hurt him?

Irritated, but attempting not to be, Betty soldiered on: "Well, I didn't know about the job until last night, when you sort of had other things on your mind. And during the interview – I didn't want to jinx it, you know?"

Daniel gave her a look. "_That_'s why you didn't tell me? You didn't want to jinx it?"

This had had exactly nothing to do with why she hadn't told him, but she persisted. "Well, you know, after the whole thing fell through with Lindsey Dunne's new magazine in London and I got my hopes dashed there, it kind of felt like nothing might change for me for a long time. Maybe ever. And now something fabulous has changed, and this ultimate dream job has fallen into my lap, and I guess – I guess you thought you'd at least try to be happy for me."

There was a very long pause as they stared at each other. The high stacks of cardboard moving boxes piled around the sofa now felt like walls closing in around her. Daniel's battered face, with his eye swollen and bruised deeply blue, reminded her with an almost physical pain of how close she'd come to losing him – and yet made it harder to read his expression. Was he coming around? Betty thought. Please let him be coming around.

Then he said, very quietly, "…London?"

Oh, crap.

"You were moving to London?" His voice had taken on that reedy, almost whiny quality she disliked, the one that she'd thought he'd grown out of. "You were going to move all the way across the ocean and you didn't even mention it to me once?"

"I never took the job, okay?"

"Why not?"

"Because of Papi's heart attack. I could hardly leave him now."

Daniel nodded, face blank, and she realized too late that he'd been hoping she would say that she had remained in New York for him. How selfish was that?

Betty's mood darkened yet further. A few minutes ago she'd been so happy that she'd felt like she was shining. But that precious moment of transformation and revelation – it was gone, ruined, and Daniel was the one who had stolen it from her.

"So," she said. "You're not going to bother being happy for me."

"Happy that you're leaving? No!" Daniel breathed out, a frustrated sound. "Betty, what just happened?"

Only a couple hours ago, she'd awakened in Daniel's bed, him sleeping by her side, one hand warm against her back. At the time, she'd reveled in the simple, sweet touch, and seen it as a sign of the ripening connection between them. Now it felt more as if he were determined to keep her in one place, never moving so long as she was where he found it most convenient for her to be.

Betty caught herself in the last moment before angry words would have bubbled to her lips. "I'm not sure. Listen – we're both exhausted. You had a hell of a day yesterday, and I probably need some more time to process this."

"Right. Sure." But Daniel still seemed sulky. "We wouldn't want to rush into anything like, oh, discussing our entire futures. Might as well put that off for a while. Maybe something good is on cable."

"You really do not want me making any big decisions right now," she warned. After a deep sigh, she said, "You're sure your head isn't hurting? No nausea, anything like that? If I should call a doctor before I go, tell me now."

"You're going." He sagged back against the sofa arm, as if too weary to keep the conversation, or his head, up any longer. "I'm fine. Freaked out, but fine."

Gathering together the few things she'd brought to Daniel's apartment the night before, she said, "Let's talk on Tuesday, okay? Memorial Day weekend gives us both a chance to … think things through." Simmer down, she meant. See reason. Time for Daniel to realize how he ought to be behaving and give it a try. "Besides, after the helicopter crash, you need your rest."

Daniel only nodded. But he rose as she did and walked her to his door. As she put her hand on the doorknob, he said quietly, "I meant what I said before. That is … _before _before. The part where I said I was crazy about you."

The heavy clouds shadowing her mood parted for just a moment, allowing a single shaft of light. "I meant that too."

Their hands tangled, more than a touch but not quite a caress, their fingers twining together all too briefly before each of them let go. Betty didn't dare meet Daniel's eyes before she darted out into the hallway, so she didn't look back, and her steps never slowed as she left.

**oooooo**

"I just love Memorial Day weekend, don't you?" Hilda put her arms on her son's shoulders from behind his back as he helped himself to a glass of water from the sink; he was getting a little tall for her to lean on, but that just made it sweeter. "The sunshine, the cookouts – it's like the best holiday ever."

Justin gave her a look. "This is the first time I've ever heard you mention Memorial Day as something other than a time for white sales and superhero movies."

She play-swatted him. "Shut up, would ya? I'm enjoying myself."

"You're kind of sickening when you're in love, you know?" Justin softened his words by kissing her on the cheek, before dashing out to the back stoop. Papi, taking it easy in a lawn chair this sunny Saturday afternoon, was "instructing" Austin on the best way to cook chicken on the grill, and no doubt Justin thought his boyfriend needed him to run interference. She wasn't the only one crazy in love around this house!

Besides, why not run with it? Hilda thought the pleasure of being married had only sweetened for her after being so long delayed. At any rate, Papi's illness had thus far been the only shadow on her marriage to Bobby; the rest of it was like this fireworks show that never ended, more and more beautiful surprises going BOOM every few seconds. He supported her family when they needed it. He'd gone the extra mile to make his little place work for all three of them on weekends. He was taking care of odd jobs at the house so Papi wouldn't strain himself and try to do anything stupid. And every single night – oh, yeah. Fireworks, baby.

So she intended to enjoy Memorial Day, the Fourth of July, Columbus Day, Arbor Day and every other holiday that rolled out from this day on. Life was too sweet to waste.

_But try telling that to some people_, she thought, watching the scene at the other end of the kitchen table.

Betty had been given the job of chopping the tomatoes for the salsa. She was doing this as if the cutting board had personally insulted her, or maybe committed war crimes, and so had to die. Her knife whacked into the wood over and over as she decimated each tomato almost to the point of liquefying it.

"Calm down, okay?" Hilda turned to her task, which was opening the bags of chips and putting them in plastic bowls; she would have objected to this implicit judgment on her cooking skills except that it was kind of true. "What did that tomato ever do to you?"

"I hate being taken for granted," Betty said.

"The tomatoes took you for granted?"

"Skip it," Betty said. "I'm frustrated about some – work stuff. That's all."

Probably that meant Daniel, Hilda figured. Those two fought like cats and dogs sometimes, but there was never any point in worrying about it, because they inevitably made it up in the end. So she didn't bother asking for the details, which no doubt would only have taken some of the luster from her fine spirits. When you were this happy, you just wanted to surf the wave, baby.

"I'll be okay," Betty continued, echoing Hilda's thoughts. "He'll – I mean, people come around in the end, generally speaking."

"Of course they do," Hilda said blithely. But to help this cheering trend, she took a handful of chips and dropped them on the kitchen table, within Betty's reach; this won her a big smile. Damn, girl was looking good without those braces. Soon some new guy would no doubt be coming by the house more often, making her baby sister as happy as Hilda was herself.

Next task: Get some sodas in the cooler for the backyard, because God forbid anybody should have to walk all the way inside the back door to get anything from the fridge. Now, where did they stash that cooler? Hall closet, probably.

Her high heels clicking quietly against the floor, Hilda strolled through the kitchen and living room. To her surprise, Bobby had already come in from the market; instead of walking straight back or calling for them, he was standing there with the groceries at his feet, probably complete with melting ice cream, while he yapped on his cell phone. Guys. She opened her mouth to call for him, but that was when she heard what he was saying:

"I'm not moving the merch. I'll pick it up. The end." A silence, as Bobby stared intently at the floor. "Two weeks? Yeah. Get me a van. No plates." Then he hung up.

Pressing herself against the living room wall, Hilda tried to catch her breath. What she'd just heard – that sounded like, well, not legal stuff. Illegal stuff. _Mob _stuff.

The mob that Bobby had promised her and promised her the Talercios had no part in.

But Papi had always wondered, and Papi had been right about some of the damnedest things …

No. She had to have heard him wrong. Didn't she?

"Hey!" Bobby called. "I'm home!" Like he was just coming in the door.

And like she hadn't heard anything, Hilda came strutting out to take the grocery bags and accept a big kiss on the cheek. She didn't say a word.

But inside her head … BOOM.

**oooooo**

After Molly's memorial service, some distant cousin of hers who didn't know Daniel very well had given him a book. He had finally gotten around to reading the book on the endless flights between New York City and the Himalayas, which was how he had learned that there were five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.

He didn't think "grief" was exactly the right word for his emotional response to Betty's announcement, but the five-stages thing? That was right on the money.

Denial had been his main reaction when she'd first told him. (It was his first reaction to almost any huge emotional upset, really; Alexis, in her Alex days, had once said it was no coincidence you could get that word by rearranging the letters of Daniel's name.) Leaving now – just when they were getting so close – no. That wasn't the Betty he knew. She was loyal to a fault. She'd remained by his side through thick and thin, through PLAYER and the Order of the Phoenix and Dad's death and Mom's trial. So how could she leave now, for no reason? It couldn't be possible.

Over Memorial Day weekend, though, he began to realize it was not only possible, but also absolutely true. That was when the anger set in.

How could she abandon him like this? How could she take away their daily interactions – coffee, elevator rides, making fun of Sofia Reyes – just when those moments were leading them someplace else, someplace infinitely better? How could she so coolly prepare for a move to London without ever caring that it meant leaving him, and admit that only chance had kept her from taking off before she'd known how he felt? How could she look at him gazing down at her as they danced – at the wedding, at the HOT FLASH gala – and seen what he felt for her, and still made plans to get away from him as soon as possible?

These thoughts were usually punctuated by the snap-and-rip sounds of packing tape being slapped onto cardboard boxes. He'd decided to pack himself, rather than rely on the service – the better to go through all the crap that needed throwing out. Daniel now regretted this, first of all because packing turned out to be really hard work, but mostly because he wasn't paying any attention to it anymore. The initial, neatly labeled boxes were now accompanied by others he had just dumped stuff into; these had the word JUNK scrawled on the side. Though he knew this would only make unpacking seriously painful, he couldn't quite stop himself.

For one moment, he had a vision of how different it might have been – Betty helping him move into his new place, maybe even bringing her overnight bag and a new extra toothbrush – and then caught himself.

Might have been? No. It still had to be.

Betty had said she was crazy about him too. That meant there was hope. He could still get through to her if he figured out how. She'd seemed to expect more from him – a bigger reaction, though she couldn't possibly have thought he'd be _happy _about her leaving – did that tell him the right way to go? Maybe it did.

A big reaction. Something that would show her how strongly he felt. Something showy. Yeah, that was the way to go.

Daniel's cheerful blaze of restored optimism blinded him to the fact that this was the beginning of the "bargaining" phase.

When Tuesday rolled around, he wore a favorite blue suit into the office, paired it with his lucky purple tie, and got in early enough to put a few things together at his desk. If he knew Betty – and he did – she'd get in, go through work emails and get coffee before strolling by his office, which she would sometime between 9:30 and 10.

At 9:45, as he scowled at an email from Wilhelmina requesting an afternoon meeting to contest the cover shot he'd chosen, he finally heard Betty's voice from the doorway: "You look better."

Daniel glanced up to see her standing there, and she almost took his breath away: cherry-red dress, brilliant yellow pumps, full lips, loose hair. Her expression was guarded, but hopeful – much like his, he would have bet. "The black eye went all the way from purple to – it's green, right? That's what it looked like this morning."

"Pretty greenish." Betty's mouth curled in a reluctant smile, and he could hardly remember why he'd ever thought they couldn't handle this. "Don't worry. It doesn't clash with your tie."

"Well, that's a relief." He sat back in his chair, more relaxed now, as she took a seat right in front of his desk. "Did you have a nice weekend?"

"Okay," she said. "Hilda was in a weird mood from Saturday afternoon on. But the rest of us had fun. Dad felt a lot better; he and Elena were flirting like he could still chase her around the room."

"Good for your dad."

Betty grinned; this conversation was getting easier by the second. "It was a little strange to be, like, glad my dad still has a libido. But it's … healthy for him, I guess." She took a deep breath. "Anyway, I brought you something to look at."

She slid a piece of paper across his desk, over a stack of images of the new maxi-skirts for fall. Daniel only had to read the first couple of words to recognize it: a release, freeing Betty from her contractual obligations at MODE so that she could take that NYRB job.

Well, if Betty wanted a big reaction – proof of how strongly he felt about her – she could have it. This was the perfect opportunity.

From his desk drawer he pulled out a lighter, gave Betty a look, and then set fire to the release. Dramatic gesture: activated!

Except …

Paper burned much faster than he remembered.

Particularly when you dropped it onto another, larger stack of flammable paper, say a bunch of copies of maxi-skirt pictures.

And the Meade Publications building had a very sensitive fire alert system.

Complete with sprinklers.

As water rained down from above and sirens started to wail, staffers in the office outside began shrieking and running for the stairwell. The momentary conflagration on Daniel's desk quickly began to fizzle into so much soot and grainy mess on his desk. Betty's beautiful red dress spattered into darkness as she glared at him. "What were you thinking?"

"Um – that was cooler in my head?"

This got him about as far as he would've thought. "I can't believe you just did that. This is important to me, Daniel!"

"Betty, I can make it worth your while to stay here! Professionally, I mean!" He had to shout to be heard over the sirens, but that was okay; nobody was around to hear any longer, and besides, he had to get through to her somehow. "We'll provide you with a raise. A promotion. If you need something fresh, take a look at the other Meade publications and name your position. Anything you want, I can give you!"

"I don't want to be given anything! I want to earn something! I can't believe you don't see that!"

His suit was soaking through. Rivulets of water ran down his face. "Come on! You can't expect me to sign some release so you can walk away now!"

Betty looked angrier than he'd ever seen her. "So you're going to hold me hostage? Is that it? You think you can keep me here just to date you? Because that's never going to happen, Daniel. Never!"

The sirens and the water shut off; the blaze had been extinguished. Daniel and Betty stood facing each other, sopping wet, in a room that suddenly seemed quieter than it had ever been before. She slipped off her drop-speckled glasses, revealing the beautiful face he'd admired just a few nights before – but so distant now that she might as well have been miles away.

"That's not what I meant," he said in a low voice.

"Really? Because that's what you said." She ran one hand through her sopping hair and groaned. "When and if the computers work again, I'm going to print out the release PDF again. I'll send it to you interoffice mail. Sign it and send it back the same way. If not, forget my two weeks' notice. I'll walk out today, and if you're really low enough to sue me for breach of contract – you know, go ahead."

"I would never – "

"I know," Betty said, but she still wouldn't meet his eyes. "Just sign it."

She stalked out of his office, her heels squelching on the wet carpet as she went.

Daniel realized, too late, that the big gesture she'd wanted was for him to let her go. And he'd failed. More than failed. He'd screwed it all up, probably for good.

This had to be where the "depression" phase began.

**oooooo**

Claire was dampened in the false fire alarm, but she simply used her lunch hour to get a blowout at a nearby salon. This meant she was able to see Wilhelmina at the afternoon meeting with both of them equally polished, equally perfect – ideally matched warriors.

Daniel, meanwhile, looked like a drowned rat. If he'd taken one step to clean himself up after the small fire in his office, she could see no evidence of it. He simply stared balefully at Wilhelmina Slater as he slumped in his chair.

"You know my feelings about green," Wilhelmina said. "Doesn't matter how beautiful the dress is, how fine the photography, or what the cover lines are. If the cover uses green as the dominant color, the issue doesn't sell."

"That's standard-issue J-school crap," Daniel said.

Wilhelmina raised an eyebrow. "You actually attended journalism school? What a revelation. Why, Daniel, you just keep unfolding like a flower."

"No, I didn't go to J-school, but even I heard that old bit of conventional wisdom." He was angrier about this than he ought to have been, Claire noted; he was too defensive, particularly when Wilhelmina's point was borne out by sales statistics. "Everybody believes green is cursed or something. The result is that almost nobody has done a green fashion cover in the past decade. So who knows? What if green looks fresh now? Original?"

"What if it looks repulsive?" Wilhelmina shot back.

Claire watched as her son held up the proposed cover image, Natalie Portman in a rich green cowl-necked sweater. "This woman looks repulsive to you? It doesn't to me. I'm a straight guy; I'd know."

This earned him a contemptuous glare from Wilhelmina. "Straight men are not our demographic, Daniel. I should have thought you'd realize that by now."

"Well, I would've thought you'd realize Connor Owens is a crook and a user by now," Daniel said. "I guess we both have a lot to learn."

Wilhelmina gripped the armrests of her chair, obviously both angry and shocked. Claire had no love lost for the woman, but that didn't change the fact that her son was behaving unprofessionally, making something personal when there was no need for it to be. Time for her to step in.

"I think the cover image is arresting," Claire said. "Better than any of the other shots we got of her. But the point about green is well-taken."

"We can't photoshop the sweater another color," Daniel complained. "Oscar de la Renta will pitch a fit."

Claire nodded. "No, let's not tick off a fashion house. But we aren't stuck with that white background. That, we could tint into another shade, which would define the cover. A mustard yellow, perhaps? That's heating up for autumn."

"No," Wilhelmina said, so decisively that it took Claire a moment longer to realize she wasn't rejecting the idea out of hand. "Aqua. Tonal variations look very fresh right now. And the sweater is dark enough that it will still look like fall."

After a pause, Daniel finally said, "That would work, I guess."

"What a relief," Claire said. "Wilhelmina, I take it you can get design to work on the concept?"

"But of course." She rose and quickly strode from the conference room, obviously eager to escape from Daniel's black mood as soon as possible. He, meanwhile, didn't seem to notice that the meeting had ended; he kept staring down at Natalie Portman's face.

Claire finally ventured, "Is anything wrong? You don't look like yourself."

"I look like Mike Tyson's punching bag."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it." She studied her son carefully. "Are you still upset, after the crash? I had some bad dreams this weekend."

"No. I mean, yes, that still freaks me out, but that's not what's bothering me." Daniel gave her a hangdog look. "Betty's leaving MODE."

"What?"

"She got a job offer at the NEW YORK REVIEW OF BOOKS. It's basically her dream job. So she's going in two weeks." He took a deep breath. "I just signed her release."

Although an opportunity like that would be a plum for any up-and-coming magazine journalist, Claire was surprised Betty was going – now, at least. "Didn't you offer her a raise?"

"I did. No go."

"Are you sure you couldn't give her other reasons to stay?"

She expected her son to ask what she meant by that, and she intended to tell him. If Daniel remained oblivious to what a catch Betty Suarez was, there was no more time left for him to figure it out on his own.

Instead, Daniel slumped back in his seat. "Betty and I – we were headed toward something amazing. We got so close, and then … Mom, I blew it. I mean, really blew it. As in, for good."

"Does this have something to do with that mysterious fire on your desk?"

"Uh, yeah. It also has to do with me acting like a jackass."

The disappointment cut deep. It was always hard to see your children hurting, and all the worse when some of your hopes died with them. "Well, damn."

"Do I have to console you now?" He gave her a look. "Because I'm going to be too good at that for a while."

"It's just a letdown. That's all." She stroked his still-damp hair. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. Truly."

Slowly Daniel said, "The worst part of it – of losing her – it's realizing that I deserved to lose her. Betty always made me want to be somebody better than I was. She could see this other, better guy in me that I might be, and I've tried to become that. With her, talking about this whole thing with her leaving MODE … I wasn't that guy."

"You're a good man, Daniel. We all make mistakes."

"I make more than most."

"No beating yourself up," she said firmly. "Tonight, come by the house. I'll ask Tyler, too. We'll have some family time."

Daniel looked wary, as well he might. "Is that supposed to comfort me or just distract me?"

"We'll come up with something."

She watched him go, heart aching for him – but even as he trudged back to his office, Claire's mind was turning toward other, potentially critical matters. Once she was again alone, she quickly grabbed her cell phone.

Yoga picked up on the first ring. "Yes, I remembered to pick up the Camembert."

"Marvelous, but that's not why I'm calling." Claire took a moment to collect her thoughts; this suspicion was so new that she hardly had the words for it yet. "Earlier, Daniel said something to Wilhelmina about Connor Owens."

"That's the slag who tried to steal your husband and her jailbird boyfriend? Not that I have anything against jailbirds. Obviously."

"Yes, that's her. Wilhelmina's reaction struck me as … overly concerned about the friction between Daniel and Connor. Beyond the concern she'd feel over Daniel's anger towards Connor."

Catching on fast, Yoga said, "So you think she's actually freaking out over Connor being angry with Daniel."

"Precisely. And I can only think of one reason why she'd care."

"What that?"

Claire couldn't say it outright. Instead, she went with a question: "How could tell if someone had – sabotaged a helicopter?"

_continued tomorrow - _


	11. Fireworks, Part Two

_Well, blog readers, this is it – my dream come true. As of June 7, I'll no longer be an assistant editor at MODE, but an assistant editor at the NEW YORK REVIEW OF BOOKS! No more platform heels and Prada: Instead, I'll be writing about important authors. Major cultural trends. Scholarly analysis. And probably nobody is going to snicker at my hemlines any longer. Nobody will notice anymore, because my new coworkers will have other interests … more like mine. _

_So why don't I feel like celebrating? _

Betty began her preparations to leave within minutes of receiving the interoffice mail folder with her signed release in it. Packing up her office was easier to do than looking down at that sheet of paper with Daniel's stark signature on it. Was it her imagination, or was his writing a little bit shaky?

She wasn't going to ask herself that question. She was going to prepare for the better days to come.

"That's so weird how much simpler the lines of the room are now," Megan chirped. "Without stuffed rabbits and things in it."

Betty only said, "I hear Marc is trying to figure out how to give Amanda this desk." She didn't even have to turn and see Megan's face fall; it was enough to know it was happening.

This should have been one of the best days of her life. Instead, she felt small and sick inside.

How could Daniel have ruined this for her? Moments like this didn't come around that often; they deserved to be celebrated, not rained on. Daniel? Definitely acting like a rain cloud. Betty felt as though he had stolen something precious from her, something irreplaceable.

But she knew that wasn't the only reason, or even the main reason, for the deep sense of loss inside.

_We associate big celebrations with fireworks. Staring up into the sky, watching it blossom into brilliant light and color: Fireworks aren't just displays of our happiness, but a sign that everybody's invited to celebrate with us. There are no ticket prices, no exclusive seats. The show is for everyone. _

_So maybe I ought to feel like setting off fireworks as I count down my final days at MODE. _

_I don't, though._

_Instead I find myself remembering that fireworks aren't just pretty blooms of color, like bunches of flowers. They're explosions so massive and lethal that they'd kill anyone up close. _

_There's not that much difference between a roman candle and a bomb. _

"So, your goodbye party is going to be massive," Amanda said as she fell into step beside Betty in the Tube at the top of her last week there. "By the way, are you also leaving your apartment? Because Tyler and I are starting to want a little more privacy away from Marc. You know. For sex."

"I got that already, Amanda. And no, I'm not moving apartments. Just jobs." Betty sighed as she looked down at the folders in her arms; they were mostly exit forms to fill out for HR. Already, her last assignments had been turned in. The end was so close. "Wait, did you say a goodbye party?"

"Don't you want to know what we need more privacy for? More privacy than we could have in a bedroom?" Amanda gave her an open-mouthed smile. "Here's a hint. It involves ingredients you can find in any kitchen, if you actually cook. I mean, I don't, but Tyler says he can go shopping."

"No, I don't want to know what – "

"Admit it, Betty. You can't stop thinking about me naked."

"Amanda. Focus. Goodbye party?"

"Of course. We're gonna dance and drink – in Tyler's case club soda, but he says he can be around other drinkers, but we gotta watch him. He's still good for dancing, though. The whole staff is coming. We might see if those piñata guys from four years ago can make La Nina Betty again. Did you know, they say that's become their most popular model after the burro donkey thing?"

"I'll be sure to put that on my resume. But, Amanda – I don't really feel like a goodbye party."

Amanda stared at her as they reached the elevator bank. "Are you nuts? We always have goodbye parties! Even for people we hate. Unless they're Nick Pepper, because that guy was a loser. Also Alexis, but she left because she nearly killed Christina. That kind of killed the mood. Anyway, you love parties."

"I do, but – "

At that moment the elevator doors opened, and Daniel walked out. Betty had been working really hard to avoid him for the past week, and he'd apparently been returning the favor; this was the first time they'd laid eyes on each other since the Sprinkler System Incident. She was too shocked to say anything, or to notice much beyond the face that his face, while still bruised, was almost back to normal.

Daniel's mouth opened, then closed again, and he walked past so quickly that she half expected him to break into a run. Betty realized she was crushing the folders against her chest so hard the papers inside would all be rumpled.

"Whoa, what was that?" Amanda looked from Betty to Daniel's fast-vanishing figure at the end of the Tube. "Is Daniel, like, pissed off that you're leaving MODE?"

"Yeah." What else could she say?

"Well, no wonder. I mean, you_ are _the Tinkerbell to his Peter Pan. The R2D2 to his C3PO. The Stacey to his Clinton. Wait, no, I call that last one for me and Marc."

Betty said, shortly, "He'll get over it."

She expected Amanda to respond by blathering on about the party some more, which would give her another chance to veto it, but Amanda surprised her: "I don't know if he will. I mean – you're the only reason he made it here, right? He's never really had to run MODE without you, not for long, anyway. So Daniel's probably freaking out."

Why hadn't she ever thought of that before? It had been so long since Betty had questioned Daniel's ability that she hadn't wondered whether he still questioned it himself.

Lost in thought, she failed to notice the moment when Amanda strutted away, which meant, whether she liked it or not, the party was on.

_Thinking about the true nature of fireworks – and some other things – reminded me that even the greatest changes in life are also forces of destruction. Yes, I'm ready to move on to the NYRB. I'm ready to take the next steps in my life. _

_But believe it or not, I'm going to miss working at a fashion magazine. I'm going to miss all the friends I've made. The bustle and color of the Closet. The challenge of finding new things to say about clutch handbags. Walking up the runway after the Fashion Week show is over. Joking on the beach during a photo shoot in the Bahamas. Brainstorming late at night with Chinese food. Meade Publications galas. All the good stuff. _

_Saying hello to what comes next means saying goodbye to all that. _

_Celebrating what comes next in my life means facing the destruction of what came before. _

_And that's as hard for me as it must be for … everyone else. _

A deep percussion beat thumped through the MODE offices as the goodbye party began. Betty, still at her desk, sat staring at the blank spot on the wall where her poncho used to hang. She'd had it sent to her apartment; she'd have to get a look at her new space at the NYRB and see if the framed poncho would fit there. The dimensions of her office-to-be: Just one more part of the future she didn't know and couldn't guess.

Why hadn't she realized that quitting MODE would be scary? For Daniel, and for her?

Too late, Betty understood that part of why she'd needed Daniel to be happy for her right away was because she didn't want to face his natural worries about her leaving – which meant facing her own fears, as well. That was a burden she shouldn't have put on him, particularly not right after he'd had to confront his own mortality in that horrifying helicopter crash.

(Was that part of it too? Had her fear of losing him forever subconsciously led her to push him away so she'd never have to face that pain again?)

But recognizing her own fault in their argument didn't take away the fact that Daniel had behaved badly. Very badly. Burning that release – trying to prevent her dream from coming true – that would have been childish and unfair at any time, doubly so after they'd come so close to a romance. Her part in their initial misunderstanding didn't excuse his actions. Betty could hardly believe he'd done that. It seemed so unlike the kind, patient, helpful Daniel she'd become enchanted by in the past couple of months.

Had she really fallen for Daniel? Already it seemed surreal – impossible. Like a dream she'd had. A dream that still had its power over her …

But if he could really be so mean-spirited about her desire for another job, about her need to move on and have an independent life without him, then she'd never fallen for Daniel at all. Just for a vision of him that had proved to be a mere illusion.

_If you want to make progress towards your goals, you can't focus too much on the destruction and danger of the inevitable fireworks. You have to look at the colors, and the lights. You have to hear everyone around you cheering. You have to gaze upward in wonder at all the beauty that's possible for you, and for all of us. _

_So that's what I'm going to do. _

Betty took a deep breath and swallowed the knot in her throat. Then she walked out to her farewell party, raised her hands to the answering cheers of her coworkers, and threw herself into the dancing.

It helped her stop thinking about the fact that Daniel wasn't there.

**oooooo**

Probably Hilda could've swung an invite to Betty's farewell party at MODE. Justin got invited just for being an intern for a few days; didn't being a Fashion Week hairstylist rate the same treatment? One phone call to Marc and the whole thing would've been set up.

But Justin was at a "Moulin Rouge" sing-along in Chelsea with Austin, and besides – tonight, Hilda had bigger challenges to deal with.

Her running shoes were white and silver, so Hilda had gone with ballet flats, which were at least quieter than heels. Black leggings, black T-shirt, sunglasses at night: That all seemed about right.

She peered around the corner of the warehouse into the neighboring parking lot. Nothing yet, except the same old empty soda bottles that had been there three minutes ago, the last time she dared to take a look. Damn, some people were trashy. How hard was it to throw your crap away?

Hilda knew she was only irritated about the trash because it helped keep her from freaking out, and she needed all the help she could get.

If Bobby was out here doing some kind of job for the Mafia, she was going to kill him before the mob thugs ever had the chance. How could he lie to her like that? How could he endanger their new family? They'd already started talking about trying again for a baby later this year …

"Hilda?"

She spun around, clutching in her purse for the pepper spray, but Bobby ducked down and covered his eyes. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! Baby, it's me!"

Hilda took a deep breath, torn between relief and outrage. "Yeah, it's you, hanging out here in this parking lot. You are _not_ at the sports' bar trivia night, mister!"

"What are you doing here?"

"Waiting for you." She crossed her arms. "Bobby, what are you doing here?"

"I – I'm going to trivia night later." He looked wary, as well he might. "I just gotta do my cousin Eddie a favor."

"Your cousin Eddie, huh?" Eddie Talercio was a round-faced, endlessly cheerful type, who had come to her wedding, done the chicken dance and eaten at least a third of the cake by himself. "Eddie needs you to 'move the merch'? Eddie's the one sending you out in an unmarked van? Is that what's going on here?"

Bobby groaned as he leaned against the brick wall of the warehouse with her; it was as if they were both hiding out from God knew who, barely illuminated by the streetlamp yards away. Although this was probably the single biggest argument they'd ever had – and what it meant was both huge and terrifying – Hilda realized she felt safer out here now that he was with her. She still trusted the guy, even if it was crazy.

Finally he said, "I'm not mob. I told you that, and I told you the truth. But – a couple guys in my family – "

"Oh, Jesus, save us." Hilda covered her face with her hands, as if trying to block it out.

"Hilda, I don't get mixed up in that crap. Swear to God. I've never brought home one dollar I didn't earn fair and square. But every once in a while – maybe once a year or so – one of them asks me something as a favor. As family. So I do it, and I don't ask questions."

"What kinda favors are we talking about here? Are you a hit man? A bank robber?"

"Don't be ridiculous –"

"We are out here on a Friday night because you're doing something for the mob. There is no such thing as a ridiculous question about this. Okay? I get to ask whatever I want."

Bobby looked wounded. "I would never hurt anybody like that. Not ever."

"I know, baby." She touched his arm. "I know that. But you gotta tell me what this is, and we gotta get you out of it."

His phone rang. From the expression on his face, she knew who had to be on the other line. Holding out her hand, Hilda said, "Give it here."

"You don't need to get mixed up in anything you don't understand."

"That's why I'm gonna understand." Hey, if the mafiosos decided Bobby was totally whipped, they'd probably back off. Hilda kept staring at her husband until finally he handed the phone over. "Hello, who is this?"

"Hilda?" Jesus, it really was cousin Eddie. He was mafia? Didn't look the type. "So nice to talk to you. Listen, I was calling Bobby – "

"I know you were calling Bobby. For dirty work. I'm not okay with that, Eddie. He's leaving the family business. As of now."

Only after the words left her lips did Hilda realize that back-talking a mafia don was probably a bad idea, even if he was related to you and looked more like a Weeble than Michael Corleone. Bobby's eyes were bugging out of his head, and she wondered – much too late – whether she'd just started them down a path that led to riding in car trunks and wearing Hefty bags for a late-night swim.

But Eddie just chuckled. "The little woman's putting her foot down already, huh? Well, listen, Hilda. I don't want to mess things up for you. All I ask is you don't mess things up for me."

Nervously she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "I wasn't gonna call the cops or anything."

"Of course not. But tonight – I was counting on Bobby here. I just need him to drive that van a few miles down the road. Nothing in the back but DVD players. You can check for yourself, if you want. Hey, go with him. It's safe as it can be, and that way, I'll owe you both a favor. Never know when you might need a favor, Hilda."

She was starting to see how Bobby might feel like, at times, he had no choice. "This is the last time. The absolute last. I have your word on that."

"My word," Eddie said. "On my life, I swear that to you, Hilda Suarez Talercio."

There was no saying why him using her full name made her believe him, but it did. "Okay. We'll do it."

"That's good of you. And hey, we're gonna see you guys for the Fourth of July picnic, right?"

"Yeah, see you then!" Hilda managed to keep the cheer up until the call ended; then she and Bobby stared at each other for a long moment. "I didn't realize 'for better or for worse' covered this kind of thing."

Bobby shook his head. "We're both in the van?"

"He said it was safe."

"Yeah, it's safe. I would never have said okay to anything that wasn't safe – you know that, right?"

"I guess."

The look they shared told him that he knew what she knew now. That he hadn't left because it wasn't easy to leave. That your family could tie you to things you would never have dreamed of. And loving somebody meant being along for the ride, even if the ride was in a van transporting possibly stolen goods.

As they began walking toward the van that had been dropped there for pickup, Bobby gave her an uneasy smile. "Look at you. All tricked out in your black secret agent gear."

"Stop it." Hilda realized she was smiling too. Yeah, she still felt uneasy about this – but she wasn't angry with Bobby, at least not anything like as much as she had been. Family came first, after all, and if some of your family got mixed up in craziness … well, you might have to deal with a little crazy. She'd had to deal with MODE, hadn't she?

Okay, not the same thing. But still. Hilda wasn't leaving her man over this, not by a long shot.

"What were you gonna do in all this black?" Bobby had started to grin, sensing the worst of the crisis had past. "Go running after the van, flip up onto the roof like Sydney Bristow or something?"

"You_ wish_ I ran around in little rubber dresses like Sydney Bristow."

"Never too soon to start planning a surprise for our anniversary – "

**oooooo**

As the van pulled up to the heliport gate, Yoga bounded up to the back, boosted herself off the bumper and effortlessly slid atop the roof. The gates opened, and she held on as her ride drove through, confident her black clothing would conceal her in the darkness.

_These days were supposed to be over for me_, she thought wryly. _Only for you, Fish. _

Then again, it was kind of good to know she still had it in her.

So, she knew now you could get past the security gates. Yoga had made the leap skillfully, but during the day, with traffic coming in and out, even someone with less expertise would be able to pull it off. That only meant that sabotage was possible, and in itself proved nothing, but it was good to know.

As soon as the van's occupants (mechanics, she thought) went inside the main building, Yoga slipped down to the pavement. Noiselessly she backed herself up to the structure itself; security cameras were likely to pan the perimeter, rather than the closest areas. Her eyes, accustomed to this task, quickly picked out each of the cameras and assessed what the likely blind spots would be. One of those blind spots was right by the side of another fenced enclosure – the pad itself, where the helicopters sat at the ready.

Slowly, deliberately, she walked through that blind spot, right to the far side of that enclosure. And there, at the bottom, was a triangle of mesh that didn't match the rest – shiny silver, instead of the time-dulled fencing of the rest.

They'd just repaired the fence within the past several days.

Like they would if somebody had cut their way in.

And Yoga could think of one good reason someone might have done that.

She whistled a low note. "Fish is gonna be in one hell of a mood tonight."

**oooooo**

From the far corner of the office, Daniel watched Betty's celebration party rage on. In some ways, it was miraculous to see: The same fashionistas who had scorned her a few years ago were now dancing beside her, sharing her joy, and unashamed to admit they were going to miss her. Even Wilhelmina had strolled through earlier, sharing a few apparently sincere words with Betty; whatever she had said had made Betty grin with pride.

In other words, every single person at MODE was able to be happy for her, except him.

Daniel felt like pond scum. Worse: Pond scum that was going to die alone. How could he have been so stupid? He kept trying to think of ways to save the situation, but none came to mind that didn't seem presumptuous or bossy or any of the other things Betty hated so much.

So he was stuck there, watching her dance between Marc and Amanda, her glittery gold jacket glinting with every move she made. She was like a Fourth of July sparkler: simple, joyful, bright.

_I've lost her,_ he thought. _I've really, truly lost her. _

And the worst part was that he'd lost her by failing to be the better man she'd always inspired him to be.

Then Daniel realized: _Even if I've lost her, I can still be that man. I want to be. _

Something settled over him, a mood unlike any other he'd experienced during the past two weeks – sad, yet strangely comforting. He wasn't going to keep reviewing his many mistakes. He wasn't going to be angry with Betty for wanting something else for her future, or for not wanting him along with it. He wasn't going to mope around and avoid the issue any longer. No, he was going to _be that man._

This was probably the "acceptance" part.

As Pink's song began winding up, Daniel finally walked out of the shadowy alcove where he'd been hiding out and gestured toward the photo editor who was playing DJ for the party. She turned down the volume just as the song ended, and though a few dancers groaned, more of them looked up, which gave Daniel a chance to hold up his hand and call for everyone's attention.

Betty was one of the last to turn. Her wide, surprised eyes made Daniel feel as if he'd torn open inside – God, was she actually afraid of what he would say? – but no. He wasn't going to concentrate on his fuckups. He was only going to think about what needed to be said, and say it.

"We're here tonight to bid goodbye to Betty Suarez," Daniel said, surprised that his voice remained even. "She began at MODE as my assistant – but she helped me in ways that went far beyond fetching coffee or scheduling appointments. Within weeks of her arrival, I knew she was smart … even brilliant. Always cheerful. Always kind. I think we all learned fast just how important she was to this place, to all of us. At any rate, I learned how important she was to me."

Almost how important. If he'd learned exactly how important, earlier on – but no. He wasn't going to give in to regrets right now. This moment was about Betty.

She stood there, totally still, as clear to him as if she were framed in a spotlight. The overheated room and her wild dancing had mussed her hair, and a few strands stuck to the sweaty skin of her cheek. But Betty's eyes were wide and dark, her gaze as serious as it had ever been.

"Betty has helped me as an editor, and me as a person, in more ways than I can possibly name here, or maybe even understand. I think she's done that for all of us. So as hard as it is to watch her walk out these doors, and out of our lives, we have to be glad for her. Be proud of her, moving onward and upward, always. Betty, I hope you get everything you ever wanted, and that all your dreams come true. You deserve that and more. Just know that you'll always be remembered. You'll always be missed. Love you. Goodbye."

Everybody began clapping and cheering, and plastic champagne glasses were raised across the room. The DJ pumped up the volume again as someone pressed a flute of bubbly into Daniel's hand; he gulped the drink down in a couple of swallows, then started to head for the door. He'd done what he needed to do, paid Betty the tribute she deserved. Now he needed to stop raining on her parade and take his bad mood somewhere else, like his new apartment, where going through endless boxes marked JUNK at least kept him busy.

But as he reached the edge of the party, a hand caught at the sleeve of his jacket, and he turned to see Betty there – grooving to the beat the whole time. "Where are you going?" she called over the racket. And she was smiling at him. Really smiling. Daniel hadn't known how badly he already missed her smile.

"I was – " What was he going to say?

It didn't matter; Betty towed him back onto the dance floor, right there with her and Marc and Amanda. "Will you just dance already?"

So maybe they were just friends. It wasn't what he wanted, but it was worth a hell of a lot. So Daniel threw himself into it, bouncing along with Marc and Amanda and Betty, all of them thrashing their heads side to side with the beat.

When it came to Betty, he was ready to stop worrying about what he could get. He just wanted to know what she needed. Whatever that was, he would be.

**oooooo**

As the party wound down, Betty made her way to her office … her former office. It was empty now of the gerber daisies and photos and everything else that had made it hers. Slowly she took her ID out of her jacket pocket and dropped it on the desk. From now on, she would only be a visitor here. Her time at MODE was truly over.

From the doorway behind her, she heard Daniel's voice. "Hey. Headed out?"

"Almost." Betty turned to see him, framed in the shadows. His shirt collar was loose from the dancing, and as he leaned against the doorjamb, she could make out the entire outline of his body. Just the nearness of Daniel sent a welcome shiver through her, and Betty knew then – as she'd always known, really – that the change in her emotions for him was no illusion. "Thanks, by the way. For what you said in there."

"It's no more than what I should've said from the start."

"I threw a lot on you at once. I get that now."

Daniel shrugged. "Yeah, but that's not exactly an excuse for starting fires."

The memory of the blaze on his desk made her smile; something she'd thought of as an outrage had already become funny to her. "That was kind of … special."

"Sorry about that." He ran one hand through his scruffy hair. "Not just the fire, though, you know, mainly the fire. But also for not understanding how important this was to you. For not supporting you, even if you – chose something else. That's the least I owe you."

Betty cocked her head as she sat on a corner of her desk. "Daniel, did you really never understand? – I couldn't have dated my boss. Not ever. That wouldn't be right. My getting another job wasn't about choosing something else. It opened up a lot of new possibilities for both of us. Or that's how I saw it, anyway."

Watching the realization dawn on his face would have been hilarious, if she hadn't seen the pain written there too. "I feel – really stupid now."

"Don't. We need to be clearer with each other._ Both_ of us." She smiled at him softly. "From now on, we need to do a better job of talking to each other."

Daniel watched her for such a long time that she began to wonder if he'd heard her wrong. Then he said, expression shifting into wonder, "From now on?" She nodded. "So I didn't, um, blow it completely?"

So, he hadn't given that speech at the party to get her back. He'd said it completely unselfishly. That was – endearing. "Let's say you still have a chance to get back on my good side."

He took a few strolling steps into the office, hands in his pockets. The worried crease between his eyebrows had smoothed, and Daniel's eyes now held a kind of light that made her feel warm and soft inside. "What would a guy have to do to get on your good side?"

"Tell you what." Betty nudged the cardboard box full of her stuff with her elbow. "Start by carrying this down to the taxi for me, and we'll take it from there."

**oooooo**

Daniel carried her box down to the taxi.

He rode to her apartment with her, the two of them side by side, knees brushing against each other, laughing about different hookups and incidents at her goodbye party. Every single time their eyes met, she felt it like an electric shock. Or a deliciously cool breeze. Or a sparkly, brilliant kind of light … like fireworks.

Then he took the box in his arms and walked with her to the front stoop of her building, and by then, Betty's heart was pounding.

"So," Daniel said. "This box is pretty heavy. Maybe I should take it upstairs for you."

"I don't know." She leaned against the wall, rolling her ankle so that her shoe slipped back and forth against the step. "That's a few flights up, you know. You might get tired. You'd have to stick around and rest for a while."

"More than a few minutes," he agreed. "A few hours, maybe."

_Or all night,_ Betty thought but didn't say. She didn't have to speak it aloud. Just looking at Daniel told her he was thinking the exact same thing.

A zillion questions flooded her mind at once – _are we ready for this? Is jumping in this fast a good idea? But we're definitely ready to make out, right? _– but she reminded herself that the main thing was that they spend some time together. Figure out what they were going to be to each other from now on. And tell each other the truth.

"Come on up," she said, and oh, there were no words for the heat in Daniel's eyes –

A car came racing along the street, faster than the usual traffic of taxis crawling along looking for addresses; that was what got her to glance away from Daniel. Because she glanced over in time, she saw the car slowing suddenly, and something dark protruding from the window.

And almost too late, realized what that was.

"Look out!" she cried, tugging Daniel down with her as gunfire erupted and bullets began slamming into the door. Daniel pushed her closer to the wall, covering her body with his, but the assault was already over. As the car sped away, tires squealing, their eyes met.

"Jesus Christ," Daniel said, pulling her even closer to him. His breaths were coming as short and fast as her own. "What the hell just happened?"

"I don't know."

All around them, car alarms were going off, people were glancing out their windows, and other passers-by were starting to freak out. Within minutes, the police were on the scene, and neighbors were demanding answers. Marc, Amanda and Tyler all arrived home from the party and sat on the stoop with them, providing some minimal comfort.

"I put some of the chocolate from the party in my purse," Amanda said, putting a handful of slightly mushy foil-wrapped candies in Betty's hand. "Here."

"Thanks," she sighed. A few feet away, a police officer lifted her good-luck bunny with a pair of tongs; a bullet hole showed clearly through its pink chest. Then it was dropped into an evidence bag and sealed. "I just can't get over it. A drive-by shooting, in this neighborhood?"

"We're okay. Nobody was hurt." Daniel rubbed her shoulder, a touch she found deeply reassuring – but then his cell phone went off, startling both of them. He swore lightly under his breath. "Still jumpy. Okay." Quickly he answered. "Hello?"

The volume was set loud enough for Betty to hear Claire Meade's voice. "Daniel. Are you at Betty's party? I don't want to disturb you."

"The party's over," Daniel said. "And how."

Before he could explain further, Betty heard Claire continue, "Listen. Yoga and I have made a fairly upsetting discovery." She shared a look with Daniel, who held the phone out, the better for them both to hear. "It looks as if our little plunge into the Hudson two weeks ago wasn't an accident. Someone appears to have broken into the helipad, and possibly sabotaged the helicopter."

Betty's mind leaped forward, making the connection so fast she would have doubted it – if there were any room for doubt, but there wasn't.

"The helicopter was sabotaged," she whispered. "And tonight – that wasn't a random drive-by."

Daniel had begun shaking his head no, though she knew he believed her. "It can't be."

"It can," Betty insisted. "Daniel … someone is trying to kill you!"

**oooooo**

_Next episode: "The Unusual Suspects" _

_(Songs: "I'm Coming Up," Pink; "Don't Rain on My Parade," Lea Michele; "Rolling in the Deep" by Adele.) _


	12. The Unusual Suspects, Part One

**The Unusual Suspects **

Betty wedged her cell phone between her shoulder and ear as she double-checked all the files she wanted to bring into the office for her first day. "Are you standing near a window? Don't! Guns can fire through windows."

"I'm not near any windows," Daniel promised. He lounged in the breakfast room of his childhood home, where he'd been staying ("hiding out" didn't sound very dignified, he thought) since the revelation that someone was trying to kill him. The security system at the Meade mansion was state of the art, something he appreciated more after a couple of attempts on his life. What he didn't appreciate was being trapped inside, day after day after day. MODE was mostly getting edited via email. "Stop worrying about me, okay? This is your big day!"

"Believe me, I remember. But if I don't worry about you, then I might start worrying about me." Betty quickly glanced at her reflection in the mirror: soft yellow dress, green cardigan, plaid bag. Hair sleek and bouncy. Perfect. "I'd rather be concerned about you and walk into my first day at NYRB calm and confident. Do you feel safe? Are you freaking out over there?"

"Only from boredom." He glanced up to nod thanks to the cook who deposited a fluffy Belgian waffle in front of him, piled high with strawberries, on a fine china plate. "It's like a_ prison _in here." From the next room, Daniel could see Yoga giving him a look, but he felt like there were definite parallels she just wasn't grasping at the moment.

"I'm sure the police will get to the bottom of it soon," she promised. "Then you'll be free again."

"But I'd rather be free today. Then I could see you off to your first day at work. Pack your lunch for you." Daniel cradled the phone against his face as though it were her hand. "Make sure you had your milk money."

Betty knew her smile would shine through in her voice. "That sounds – beyond sweet. You know, I could come by afterwards, tell you all about my day."

"Don't even think about it," he said, suddenly as firm as she'd ever heard him. "You came way too close to getting hurt last time. It's not worth the risk."

"I want to see you."

"And I want to see you, but not nearly as much as I want you to stay safe."

Betty sighed. Daniel's overprotective nature was as frustrating as it was endearing. "Well, the police had better get a move on finding whoever did this. I miss you."

"Miss you too."

For a moment, there was silence – not exactly comfortable, but nonetheless full of promise. She thought the wave of nervousness she felt was a lot like that of a small child looking at a Christmas tree piled high with presents that couldn't be opened just yet.

_I think about you all the time_, Betty imagined saying. _I worry about you and wish I could hold you and I wonder what happened in my brain to turn you from my friend into this man I adore. _

_I can't sleep at night for wanting you_, Daniel imagined saying. _It's like everything I do is just killing time until I can finally be with you. My entire life is this one long countdown until I kiss you at last. _

But the pause in conversation only stretched out longer.

"Okay," Betty finally said as she headed for the door. "I'm going out. Wish me luck."

"I would if you needed it. You don't. You're going to knock 'em dead." Daniel paused. "Too soon after the shooting?"

"Kinda." She couldn't help grinning anyway.

"What I mean is – you're the most brilliant, beautiful, fantastic woman that's ever walked into that office. They're going to know that the second you come through the door, because these guys are all smarter than me. It won't take them nearly as long to figure that out."

Her cheeks flushed, her heart to full for her to share with him as she ran downstairs, Betty said only, "You're getting smarter all the time."

He laughed, and once again she thought of Christmas morning.

**oooooo**

Some people thought money solved anything. Tyler had once been one of those people, he mused, until money actually came his way.

Turned out having money made a whole lot of things much harder.

Take, for instance, sobriety. He'd managed to quit drinking while working as a bartender – not exactly a cakewalk – but he'd done it because he had to. Tyler went off the rails when he drank; going off the rails meant not showing up for work; not showing up for work meant no paychecks; no paychecks meant no paying the rent, which meant eviction notices. He liked living indoors. Hello, willpower.

But how could you hit bottom when all that money was in the way, cushioning your fall? He wasn't even paying rent, just living in his mother's palatial home. Sometimes, late at night in a restaurant, when he was dutifully sipping club soda while Marc and Amanda quaffed cocktails and strategized ways for Marc to flirt with some guy named Cliff – that was when Tyler started thinking about how he could buy any bottle of wine in the house, the finest whiskeys, the most exclusive champagnes. He didn't have to scrape through his jacket pockets and see if he had money for a cab; there was a town car that showed up anytime he hit the speed dial on his cell. And if he acted out the way he sometimes had – well, bail would be easier to make than before.

Yeah, being rich made it harder to be sober. So far, Tyler thought he'd only remained on the straight and narrow because of two things: The terrifying memory of having pulled a gun on his own mother, and the bizarre miracle that was Amanda Tanen Sommers.

He sat up in her bed that morning, watching her sleep. He'd helped her drift off last night by tickling her back and telling her she was pretty – his idea of a good time. She reminded him of the kitten he'd had as a boy, with the way her playful, spoiled nature didn't quite conceal the love and loyalty beneath the surface. Tyler gazed down at her and wished that adoring her could be enough to make him happy.

But it wasn't.

Her alarm went off the same time it usually did; Amanda swatted at it in annoyance before frowning up at him. "Tell me it's not Monday."

"Sorry, it is."

"Today I have to do a photo shoot with luggage." She propped up on her elbows, golden curls all askew. "How am I supposed to make luggage look hot? They're boxes. Boxes with handles. None of that is hot. I don't even know what Daniel's thinking. Maybe he went stir crazy since he's, like, under siege."

Tyler brushed her hair from her forehead. "Listen, I've been thinking about something."

"I could tell. You didn't make cinnamon rolls." Amanda's lower lip stuck out in a pout, but the concern in her eyes was clear. "What's up?"

The words stuck in his throat, but he had to tell someone eventually, and there was nobody better to hear it than her. "I want to talk to my father."

Amanda sat upright. "You mean your DNA, blood test, bio father. Your Cal Hartley father."

Tyler nodded.

She bit her lower lip before saying, "Are you sure? He's kind of an ass-munch."

"So I've heard. But it doesn't matter. He's still my father."

Amanda folded her arms over her knees. She remained silent long enough that he knew she was carefully considering her next words … which, in Amanda's case, meant she was considering them, period. Normally there wasn't much of an editor between her brain and her mouth. It was one of the best things about her. But it also made him listen more closely now. "I knew Fey Sommers a little. She never said anything special to me. I mean, I'm not sure she ever looked at me."

"She has to have looked at you. You were her daughter, Amanda. It wasn't coincidence that you ended up at MODE."

"I know that, but – she never let me see her looking. Which is about as bad." Her voice gentled as she said, "Still, I'm so glad I met her. It would've been a zillion times worse if I hadn't."

"Which is your way of saying you'll help me talk to – Mr. Hartley." What else could Tyler call him?

Amanda said, "It's also my way of saying that this stuff doesn't always go well. Sometimes it's really crappy."

"I need this." It wasn't about staying sober, at least not exactly; it was about finding out who he was. As long as he hadn't looked his birth father in the face, Tyler felt as if some critical element of that was missing. And with money piling up all around him, cushioning every blow and concealing every view, self-knowledge was more important than ever.

"I know you need it. So we'll get it for you." Amanda folded her arms around him, as if she could grab all the good things in the world for them both, just that easily. If anybody could do it, it would be her.

**oooooo**

"My," said the receptionist behind chunky black glasses frames that made Betty's look subtle. "How – colorful."

"Thanks!" Betty already realized that wasn't necessarily a compliment.

Where MODE's offices were accented with "rumba orange" and peopled with staffers as slender and bright as butterflies, NEW YORK REVIEW OF BOOKS seemed to be very, very committed to beige. Also gray. Black and white were favored too. But mostly beige and gray.

Instead of the Tube, there was an ordinary corridor with vintage framed covers at poster size and endless bookshelves piled high with publisher ARCs. Old frayed Persian rugs topped the thinner office carpet in places, but even these were mostly camel-colored. Even the buzz of conversation around the office was muted, almost hushed, and people walked slower on their way through the halls. At 26, Betty had been near the median age of a MODE staffer; already she could tell she was probably the youngest person here, maybe by a decade.

_So what_, Betty told herself. _You've been a fish out of water before. Heck, you've never been IN water. You're like – a lungfish. Or something. You know how to do this! _

_But this was supposed to be my fishtank …_

Then Jackson Noble stepped out, and it became much easier to smile. He had interviewed her for the job – he was a handsome man in a sort of overripe frat boy way, with dark blond hair shot through with silver at the temples and a strong jaw and good build that nonetheless was slightly padded with the aftereffects of good wine. His shirt was a daring-for-this-place navy blue. "Betty! I see HR's processed you in record time. You're in time for the monthly pitch meeting."

"Sounds great." Though she'd expected to have a few days to get her feet under her before having to pitch ideas, she'd prepared something just in case.

_See? _Betty told herself. _This is going to be your fishtank after all. Even if you are the only one who wears colors. That just makes you the tropical fish! Consider Nemo found. _

And she felt really good until about five minutes into the meeting.

"Obviously you want to delve into the question of how Bishop's poetry has been edited," Jackson said to a gray-clad staffer who nodded and jotted notes in a forbiddingly thick file; at NYRB, people did more research on their pitches than some doctoral candidates did for their theses. "That's critical. But I want to see more appreciation of the poetry itself."

The staffer nodded. "I particularly want to examine the psychology of how she deals with liminal spaces."

People murmured agreement. Betty wanted a thesaurus.

"So, Jodie's replacement has come to save us – from Jodie, anyway – " As Jackson said it, people chuckled, and the mood suddenly felt more like MODE than it had before. Not in a good way. "I realize we're throwing you into the deep end, Betty, but do you have anything to suggest?"

"Yes," Betty said. "I want to write about drag."

(You could take the girl out of MODE, but …)

For the next five minutes, she went through the latest scholarly and pop works on drag queens, the mainstreaming of drag culture, and how the fashion industry was embracing that influence more openly than ever before. Familiar with NYRB's format, she was careful to bring in at least five recently released books that could serve as sources and inspiration for the article. It was sharp. It was edgy for NYRB, but not beyond the pale. It drew on her most recent work experience to build a bridge to her new publication. It was a good pitch, and she was proud of it.

But when she finished, nobody said anything for a long moment.

"I like it," Jackson finally said, "but it's not quite there yet."

Betty pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "Oh. I see. Do you feel like it's not – focused enough on any one publication, or – "

"It's not that. It's just … you're doing a great job of telling me what people are saying about drag these days." Jackson took off his glasses and chewed thoughtfully on the earpiece for a moment. People really didn't worry about their image here. "A great NYRB article, though – that tells us what people aren't saying."

"I need to report on what's _not _being said," Betty repeated.

He grinned. "I knew you'd get it. Bring it back to me in a few days, okay?"

She didn't get it.

But he took her to lunch afterward, which was pleasant and filled with harmless office gossip, and Betty resolved to find her way out of the quandary. Best of all was looking down at her phone as she walked back to her new office to see a text from Daniel: _How's it going, superstar?_

_My first pitch meeting was kind of terrifying. But I survived. _

_Of course you blew them away. _

_Not quite. They want me to talk about what isn't being said. _

_Huh?_

_IKR? _

_Huh again? _

_I know, right? That's what IKR stands for._

_Oh! Got it. _

Betty had to smile. Daniel could take an extra couple minutes to catch on sometimes. But then, that was true of her too, at least in this place …

And then she thought of one possible interpretation of "what's not being said."

It didn't apply to her article pitch in the slightest.

**oooooo**

Yoga's cell phone rang, playing "I Kissed A Girl" by Katy Perry. She answered it, "For the last time, Fish, I'm being careful."

"He's a dangerous man," Claire said. "Are you sure I shouldn't come with you?"

"Hell, no. This is your son we're talking about. You're not going to stay cool. And cool is what we need here. Trust me on this."

"But someone could go with you. Tyler, perhaps. Let me call him."

"Too late. I see him. He's gonna see me soon. Better not to give him extra time to get ready. I like the element of surprise."

"The police could handle this."

"First of all, so far as I can tell, the police aren't doing shit, and second of all, this is the same law-enforcement agency that thinks I died in a prison escape four years ago. You want that brain trust protecting Daniel?"

Claire sighed. "Fine. Let him have it."

"I intend to," Yoga said, before snapping off her phone and crossing Strawberry Fields to face Connor Owens.

He sat on one of the nearby benches, staring down at the sunflower-styled mosaic that read only IMAGINE. Although he couldn't have recognized her, he nonetheless looked up as she came close; this was a wary man.

"Interesting to find you here," she said. "Most violent criminals I've known weren't big Beatles fans. I tend toward the Rolling Stones, myself."

"Who the hell are you?"

"A friend of the Meade family. Which is bad news for you, by the way."

Connor leaned back on the bench, spreading his arms wide across the top. He was one confident mofo; she'd give him that. Handsome, too, if you went for guys. "Have they given up on wheedling the DA to rescind my parole? Are you here to break my fingers instead?"

"Could if I wanted to."

"I'm tougher than I look."

Yoga replied, "I'm exactly as tough as I look."

Connor's eyes narrowed as he looked up at her. "You're a die-hard bitch, aren't you?" Then his face split in a grin. "I like that in a woman."

Now that they understood each other, Yoga thought, they could get down to business. "You heard about the helicopter accident a few weeks back."

"Couldn't have missed it."

"Might not have been an accident."

"Ah. So someone else thinks it might have been me." Connor took a sip from his bottle of water. All around them, tourists snapped photos of the mural; one aging hippie lady dropped flower petals onto it, obscuring the letters in IMAGINE until it became only IMAGE. "In other words, someone else is wrong."

"You've got a hate on for Daniel Meade."

"You think I'm the only one? Talking to everyone he's screwed over in this city – or simply screwed – it's going to take you a while."

"You're the only convict."

"In other words, I'm the one with the most to lose by attempting to kill him. The obvious first suspect. The easiest to jail. I'd have to be idiotic to try something like that, and I assure you, I am no fool."

That much, Yoga could believe. "Your temper could get the better of you."

"I prefer colder kinds of revenge."

"You don't think you've had your revenge already?"

Connor seemed to consider that for a while, staring up at the skyline framing the west edge of the park. Finally he said, "I'm a 36-year-old man with an Ivy League education and a brilliant c.v. that ends abruptly with my conviction on an embezzlement charge. My career is sunk, which means I get to spend my days hanging out in Central Park, trying to act as though I'm on the world's longest lunch break. The girl I intended to marry is buried under a tombstone with Daniel's last name on it. My future is blank except for the love of a woman who's got to notice, sooner or later, that I'm nothing but a weight around her neck. There's no such thing as proper revenge for that. And these days I'm learning how little I care for futility."

"So you say you're not going after Daniel because it wouldn't do you a damn bit of good." Yoga folded her arms. "Any reason why I should believe you?"

"Not one in the world. But keep digging. You'll find someone else who's angry with Daniel Meade." Connor winked at her. "I'm sure of that."

**oooooo**

Daniel was bored out of his skull.

Editing only filled so many hours a day. Without the meetings, the lunches with designers, the model casting sessions, or Wilhelmina's verbal traps, his work went fairly smoothly. This meant he had to explore every other thing he could do in his house.

One week in, and already he had:

-read one of his mother's books, THE SHELL SEEKERS, which was mostly about an old lady in England but had flashbacks to when she'd been young and in love during World War II. She'd dressed eccentrically and been disapproved of for her warm nature and disregard of propriety, so he imagined Betty in the starring role. This was more rewarding before the male love interest, whom he had made Daniel-shaped, died tragically.

-gotten back in the groove in terms of his push-ups and sit-ups, because he'd let things get a little slack in the year since Molly's death and he wanted to be able to bring the big guns out for Betty.

-watched, commented on and favorited all of DJ's skateboarding videos on YouTube, as well as vids featuring the antics of many small, cute animals, some of which he emailed to Betty.

-found his and Alex's old toybox, which included a model plane kit they'd never opened up, which he began building. Daniel figured it would be something to show Betty … via iPhone photo, of course.

He breathed out in frustration as he carefully used tweezers to affix a decal on the tail. The fact was, it didn't matter what he came up with to do at his mother's house. The only thing he wanted to be doing right now was spending time with Betty, and that was the one thing he couldn't do, for her own safety. Talking to her on the phone wasn't the same. They were on the verge of something – something amazing – and he'd never done well with anticipation. The waiting was bugging him much more than the fact that somebody apparently wanted him dead.

Which was maybe not the ideal set of priorities. Daniel realized that. But there it was.

Maybe nobody was actually trying to kill him. The police hadn't proved anything, after all. Helicopters could crash for no reason. Random drive-by shootings weren't as common in New York City as they'd been in the 1980s, but they weren't impossible. And nothing had happened to him in days now, right? The killer must have given up, if there was even a killer to start with.

After a few minutes of consideration, Daniel had more or less talked himself into believing that nobody was really trying to hurt him. However, he knew talking Betty into this would be a lot harder.

Just as he smoothed the model plane's decal out to perfection, his phone rang. "Hey, there you are," he said, getting up from his project to flop down on his childhood bed. "How was it?"

"Petrifying. My first pitch was kind of … off."

She described what the issue was, though it didn't make much sense to Daniel. "How are you supposed to write an entire article about what people aren't saying?"

"I have to think about that," Betty said. "I mean, I started thinking about it, and I came up with something."

"Okay, pitch me." Daniel slid his free arm under his head, ready and willing to play the part of an NYRB editor.

"It's not about the magazine. It's about us." Her words rushed out, a bubbling brook that flowed over him. "Daniel, we've been talking about everything in the world for the past month except what's going on with you and me. I mean, we talked about it a little, but only a little, and even less now that we're not able to do anything but talk. Doesn't it seem like talking would lead to, well, more talking?"

"I … guess?" He tried to follow this, thought he had it, and frowned. "Betty – there's so much I want to say to you, but over the phone – for the first time – I don't know."

Betty sighed. "Believe me, I understand. But you and I have been trying to find the ideal time to talk for a while now. Ideal times – they're hard to come by. Maybe we should look at this period where we can only talk on the phone as an opportunity, you know? Let's say what needs to be said."

That made good sense. Daniel's spirits brightened. "Okay. Yeah. Definitely."

"Right?"

"Right!" A long silence followed.

And got longer.

And longer.

Finally he said, "You go first."

"_Daniel._"

"It's awkward! Just – plunging in like that. Things were so much easier when you could get somebody to check a box on a note. Do you like me? Yes. No."

"That was _junior high_."

"Still!"

"I know. I tell you what. We'll trade questions. Back and forth. Just to get started. Okay?"

At that moment, the only question Daniel could come up with was _What are you wearing?_, but he'd just have to think of something else. "Sure. Okay."

"Well – when did this change for you? How you felt about me." Betty's voice was thinner – almost tight – and Daniel realized suddenly how nervous she was. Almost frightened. "We've been friends for so long, and it's not like I was pining over you all this time. And I know you weren't pining over me all those years you were shagging supermodels."

"Hilda's wedding. That was when it changed."

"Wow. That was a really definite answer."

"I remember it like it was yesterday." Daniel smiled softly as he thought about it. "You remember how I freaked out about you taking Henry as your date, right? That was, uh, extreme. And I didn't get why I'd acted that way, until Hilda gave her wedding toast. When she said that protecting someone no matter what was love – said she'd married her best friend – I just looked across the room at you and it hit me, like, wham."

"Oh, my God. I never dreamed –"

"I wasn't ready to say anything yet. Obviously. But man, when I walked up and asked you to dance – my heart was going about a thousand miles an hour in my chest."

Betty giggled, a sound he'd cherished before but warmed him even more now. "That's not what I thought you were going to say."

"What did you think I'd say?

"That it was the night I got my braces off."

"Huh? No." Daniel considered this as he rolled onto one side. "I mean, I did end up thinking about your smile a lot after, but – still oblivious."

"The wedding. Hilda's toast. Okay." He could hear her happiness, and it was almost as good as seeing it. Daniel could just imagine her, curling up on her sofa, kicking off her shoes, beaming at what he'd just said. "You know, a couple of their wedding pictures show us dancing. I'm never going to look at those the same way again."

"I want to see those too. Listen – before I told you – you sounded kind of nervous."

"Well, I was. I really didn't want you to say it was about the braces."

He propped up on the bed. "Wait. You seriously thought I might have wanted to go out with you just because you got your braces off?"

"It makes a difference," she said simply.

"Not to me." That was something he hadn't known was true before now, but the very fact that it had never occurred to him before struck Daniel as proof that it was so. "What about you? When did you realize you were – you know – " They were at a weird phase in their relationship, at least with terminology. "That you didn't just see me as a friend?"

"The day you showed me your new apartment, and we split that cookie."

Never in a thousand years would Daniel have guessed this. "The one dollar cookie from the deli?"

"Uh-huh."

All he could think of to say was, "That must have been a great cookie." Was it chocolate chip or oatmeal? He needed to know these things!

"Silly, it wasn't about the cookie. You had been so awesome coming through for me the past few weeks before that, and when you helped me take care of Papi that weekend – I don't know. I guess I was realizing how important you've always been to me. But it was something about the way you looked at me when we broke that cookie between us. That was what made me think, you know. _Oh_." Betty's words made Daniel's ego swell like the sails of a ship in the breeze, until she blithely added, "I'd never been attracted to you before that."

The breeze stopped. The sails sagged flat. "… never?"

"Nope. Well. Maybe one time."

He sat up on the bed, feeling more enthusiastic already. "Tell me about the one time."

Her voice turned up at the edges when she was feeling mischievous – like crepe paper crinkled around a present, he thought. "Do you remember that night after the whole Sofia mess when you and I went out and sang karaoke and all of that?"

"Of course I do. That was the first time for me, too."

"The first time you sang karaoke?"

"No. I mean, yes, but the first time I realized I could be attracted to you. I wasn't anywhere near doing anything about it, but I just remember thinking, you know – this is a woman. A woman worth having."

"Really?" Betty laughed in delight. "Wow, I didn't get nearly that far."

"But I thought you said – "

"Yeah, but when we were actually on the bridge, I was just like, Daniel's a nicer guy than most people realize. The other part - it was that morning, when I finally got home and went to sleep. I had this dream about you."

Whatever ego bruising might have resulted from the revelation about the bridge was instantly erased. "Tell me."

"It wasn't much. We were in the office alone, late, like we often were, and you just – " Her words softened, warming Daniel to the core. "You walked up to me and kind of, I don't know, backed me against the wall. Not in a scary way. In a good way. I remembering thinking in the dream that this should feel strange, but it didn't. It was amazing. Then you leaned down and bit me – not too hard. Right where the neck meets the shoulder. Just hard enough for me to feel it. I woke up so – well, so turned on, I could hardly breathe."

Daniel knew how that felt. He was feeling it right now. Why was that so maddeningly erotic, the thought of gently biting her just there? "That is … crazy hot."

"I could hardly look at you the next morning," Betty confessed. "But I told myself the dream was probably symbolic or something."

He started laughing, and she did too, and he had to admit – there was something to this thing where you said whatever you hadn't been saying before.

**oooooo**

Yoga had to admit that Connor Owens had been right about one thing: There were a whole lot of people who had reasons to dislike Daniel Meade.

"Daniel and I get along a lot better these days," Wilhelmina said as she examined her French manicure for any potential chips or scratches. Her nails were perfect, of course. They didn't dare be otherwise. "Ask anyone."

"You've spent most of the last four years trying to throw him out of his job," Yoga pointed out. "Ask anyone."

Wilhelmina shrugged. "I've made my peace with it. Someday, I'll strike out on my own. Someday soon, I think. If MODE is so precious to Daniel, let him have it."

Yoga folded her arms as she reclined in the fancy-shmancy leather chair in Wilhelmina's office. Damn, magazine people had it nice. Not as nice as financiers, which was why she was glad she'd chosen to scam them instead – but nice. "You spend a whole lot of time with a guy who's got a bigger problem with Daniel than you ever did."

That got a reaction even more vehement than the one Yoga had been hoping for. Wilhelmina leaned across the desk, her lilac suit bunching at the shoulders to reveal that this woman was as much linebacker as supermodel, at least when she was angry. "Leave Connor out of this. He's assured me he won't bother the Meades again, and I believe him."

"You had to ask him, though. And who knows – maybe you thought the best way to make sure Connor didn't hurt Daniel was to make sure he didn't have the chance."

"You think like the convict you are," Wilhelmina snapped. "Listen, sister, you think I outmaneuvered Anna Wintour by being a pushover? Think again."

"Don't 'sister' me," Yoga said. "We'll talk about this some other time."

Some of the suspects were people Yoga was curious to see for – other reasons.

"Let me get this straight," Cal Hartley said, across a boardroom desk bigger than some beds. "You're a … private investigator?"

"I prefer to call myself a friend of the family." This nicely got around Yoga having to mention that she didn't have a license. "It's no secret that there's bad blood between you and the Meades."

"Claire and I used to get along quite nicely," Cal retorted. "Trust me, my wife's never gonna let me forget that."

He said it so smoothly that Yoga realized he couldn't have had any clue how that would affect her. This self-satisfied douchebag had once run a number around her Fish. More than once. Fish had the dude's baby, who turned out to be a nice-looking, good kind of guy like Tyler. And still Hartley treated her like crap. Who could do that to a lady like Claire Meade? From the first time they met – in their cell, where Fish had stolen one of Yoga's Virginia Slims and the resulting fistfight had somehow, within minutes, turned into a conversation about how occasionally you just had to torch some bitch's car and that was all there was to it – Yoga had felt like it was obvious that Fish deserved better than most people. Not worse. Not what this tool had given her.

Well, if he'd turned Fish off men for life, Yoga figured she owed the guy a favor. She wasn't going to do it for him today.

"You've accused the Meades of lying about the fact that Tyler Hamill's your kid," Yoga said. "You gave Daniel Meade in particular all kinds of shit. At the HOT FLASH soiree, you made it damn clear you wanted them to back off for good about you being the baby daddy. Sure you didn't decide to take that into your own hands?"

"Yes, I'm the kind of moron who angrily confronts people in public before I try to kill them," Cal snapped. "If you're not going to give me credit for enough morality to not murder people in cold blood, at least give me enough credit to act on advice of my legal counsel."

"You're stupid enough to walk away from Fish, you're stupid enough for anything."

The man's scowl deepened. "Why are you talking about fish?"

"Never mind," Yoga sighed, rising to leave before he threw her out. Ever since her jailbreak, she'd come to especially value leaving on her own terms.

Some suspects, at least, could be eliminated immediately.

"I realize that, in the public imagination, I stand for all the girls Daniel Meade ever treated badly." Sofia Reyes strolled easily down the street outside the Meade Publications building, slipping on her sunglasses as Yoga did the same. "But I never had any personal reason to dislike Daniel. He's the one who has reason to hate me, not the other way around."

"Can't be easy, though. Working for your ex. Particularly an ex who hates your guts."

"Daniel's always behaved very maturely about that. I misjudged him, really. He's a decent man. But – I did what I had to do. My magazine rose to prominence because of that stunt, and we're still one of the company's main moneymakers." Sofia shrugged. "We've all moved on."

Sounded about right.

But someone, somewhere, had been done wrong by Daniel Meade, or believed he had, anyway. And that person had definitely not moved on.

That person wouldn't move on until Daniel was dead.

**oooooo**

Betty's neck had cramped up a long time ago, so she now had her Bluetooth earpiece on as she made her dinner waffles, the better to keep their conversation rolling.

"Waffles for dinner?" Daniel said.

"Hey, I've got Tae Kwon Do later. I have to do some carb loading." Betty paused. "Wait, did I just defend my food choices? I try not to do that."

"Didn't mean to set you up for it. That just sounds – well, it sounds good, actually."

"You had a waffle for breakfast."

"Can't have too many waffles."

"Point taken." Betty smeared a bit of butter atop her waffles, the knife scraping against the crusty surface. "So, tell me more about this thing on the bridge. Where you figured out I was a 'woman worth having.'"

Daniel's voice gentled as he said, "You were just so – freaking adorable that night. Wait. That's not poetic, is it? Freaking."

She had to laugh. "You don't have to be poetic. Just honest."

"Okay. Well, you were freaking adorable. Showing up at the restaurant like that, and sharing your wine with me at karaoke – that was kind of the hot move, actually. Not that I was evolved enough to realize I ought to work with that yet. But I did think, us drinking out of the same glass – kinda sexy."

"Dork. You just left yours on the table."

"Otherwise, you wouldn't have given me a sip?"

"I would now," she said, only realizing after she'd said it that the whole thing sounded like a bit of a double entendre. Then again – they were talking about romance, right? About maybe being in a relationship together. Flirting. Sooner or later, that led to sex.

And sex was a _lot _easier to do than to talk about.

But hadn't she told Daniel that they needed to be open and honest with each other? Wasn't this period of enforced physical separation best used to bring them closer together emotionally? Didn't she need to get used to talking about this with him eventually? If they were going to do it, she had to at least be able to say it.

"So," she said, toying nervously with her fork, "about sex."

The sound that followed was sort of like when air got in the plumbing and made the faucet explode. "Jesus," Daniel coughed, sputtering. "You had to say that right when I drank a mouthful of club soda."

"Sorry."

"No, it's okay! That is – a good topic. I like that topic. I just, uh, got club soda on the counter. And the fridge. Maybe the ceiling."

Betty's grin stretched her mouth even wider. "I mean, I don't want us to rush things …"

"No rushing. Definitely no rushing."

"…but we have known each other for almost four years, which certainly goes way past rushing it …"

"Certainly. Absolutely."

"You're going to agree with anything I say about this, aren't you?"

"Uh-huh."

"Well, stop it."

"But what if I really do agree?"

As she cut a slice of waffle, she said, "Just tell me what you're feeling." She heard a soft chiming in the background. "What's that?"

"The doorbell," Daniel said, his voice oddly distant.

Then Betty realized why he sounded so strange. He was staying at the Meade mansion for his own safety – which meant any guests he didn't know about had to be uninvited. "Don't answer it. Tyler can get it, or your mom."

"They're both out. Yoga too. And Yoga's definitely the one I'd send." The door chimed again. "Listen – it's probably one of Mom's society friends. Or a delivery. Or Amanda, looking for Tyler, if they're not together."

"You have to be careful!" Betty insisted. "Someone's trying to kill you."

"Are they? It's not like we have total proof that the crash wasn't an accident, and the shooting really could've been a drive-by. And it's been days now without anybody making a move, including me." He sighed in apparent frustration. "Plus I'm sick of being cooped up in this house instead of being with you."

This was why you didn't talk about sex on the phone! It made men frustrated, and then they did stupid things. "You stay put, Daniel."

"Okay, okay. I'm gonna check the door, though. Because this is ridiculous."

"Daniel!" Betty put one hand over her mouth as she heard his feet against the marble floor of the foyer, and the opening of the door. A moment of silence followed, which made her heart beat even faster.

But that was nothing compared to the terror that struck her as she heard the voice of Connor Owens: "What, no hug?"

_Continued tomorrow - _


	13. The Unusual Suspects, Part Two

Basically, Daniel had counted on opening the door to anyone, absolutely anyone, besides the main suspect in his own attempted murder. As he stared at Connor, all he could think was, _Betty was right. She's always right. How have you not learned this by now? _

"Daniel!" Betty's voice over the phone was frantic. "Are you okay? Say something!"

"I'm fine," he said. "It's Connor Owens."

"Then you're not fine!"

She yelped loudly enough for Connor to overhear, apparently, because Connor sighed and held out each side of his blazer in turn. "Look," he said. "No guns. You can search me for a knife if you want. I presume you're not stupid enough to be alone."

Daniel hurriedly said, "Of course not! Everyone else is … upstairs."

Connor gave him a look. "We clearly need to talk. Do we have to do it out here?"

Letting Connor in seemed like a bad idea. On the other hand, they'd been face to face for a few minutes, and Daniel continued to be alive. So if Connor was trying to kill him, he probably wasn't trying to do it right this second, at least. That was more comforting than it ought to have been.

"Come in," Daniel said. When Betty made a small squeaky sound on the other end of the phone line, he added, "Betty, if I don't text you in five minutes, call the cops."

"You watch him!" Betty insisted, but she hung up, leaving them to speak.

Connor strolled through the foyer, taking in the scene. "Haven't been here in a while."

Had it been 15 years since the two of them galloped through this house as college students on break, stinking of cheap beer and making Mom laugh despite herself? In some ways, it felt like yesterday; in others, it seemed as if that had to have been a fantasy, not reality.

"You're not here to talk over old times," Daniel said, more harshly than he'd intended. "So tell me what you are here for. Let's get it over with."

"Fine." Connor shot him a look of pure venom. "You despise me. I don't blame you. The feeling's mutual, and I doubt you blame me. Whatever shitstorm you're caught up in right now – I haven't got a damned thing to do with it, but I understand why you wouldn't take my word for it. What I don't understand is why you want to drag Willie into this."

"Wilhelmina?" Well, he hadn't seen that coming.

"Your mother's hired goon questioned her today."

Yoga was more of a volunteer goon, but Daniel decided to let that slide for now.

"Willie insists you lot are all on the same team these days," Connor continued. "Even threatened to toss me out on my ear if I so much as made a move against you. And as much as I hate you, Daniel, I don't hate you more than I love her." His voice grew rougher, quieter. "She's loyal, whether you realize it or not. So don't punish her for what I've done. Or what you think I've done. She deserves better than that, from you and from me."

Good God. The man was here pleading for Wilhelmina's job.

Slowly, Daniel said, "I trust Wilhelmina." He thought it over. "Sort of. Enough, anyway."

The tension bunching up Connor's shoulders relaxed slightly. "Fine, then. I'll leave you to whatever the hell you were doing."

He moved to go, and Daniel felt it was wisest to let him leave – but then he found himself remembering what Betty had mentioned earlier. About the important of what _wasn't _being said. What had he and Connor not spoken about? How much did it affect what was happening between them now?

The truth was as simple as it was difficult to state out loud.

As Connor neared the front door, Daniel said, "Molly wasn't in pain."

Connor froze in place.

"At the end, I mean." Daniel took a couple steps closer to him. "Our downstairs neighbor – Mrs. Chen, maybe you remember her – anyway, Molly asked to borrow this bracelet of hers. For the magazine awards banquet that night. She was … all dressed up, in this red satin gown. Excited. I'd left her only a few minutes before. Nothing was wrong except that she felt a little tired."

It helped, thinking of her as she'd been that night. Molly had never cared much for glamour or glitz, but red satin – she should've worn it more often. And she'd glowed with pride and anticipation.

"Mrs. Chen had a spare key. So when Molly didn't answer the knock, she let herself in. She was just going to drop the bracelet off for her. Molly lay on the sofa, like she did when she needed to rest for a few seconds. Head on the cushions. Feet up. Her face looked … peaceful. Probably she thought she only needed a catnap."

How Daniel hoped and prayed that was true. The single hardest thing to face about Molly's death was the fact that she'd died alone. If she hadn't known that moment for what it was, hadn't recognized the experience of dying before she drifted off, then she wouldn't have been afraid. Daniel needed to believe that she hadn't been afraid.

To judge by the look on Connor's face when he turned back toward Daniel, he needed to believe that too.

"She refused treatment," Daniel said. "I tried everything I could to talk her into trying – something, anything, just trying. But she said she'd had enough of chemo and radiation and feeling like crap all the time. Molly wanted the last months of her life to be good ones. So I married her, and I brought home cupcakes at least once a week, and I pretended to like 'Dancing With the Stars," and I loved her the best way I knew how, all the way to the end. She was happy as she could be, considering what she was going through. There wasn't a lot of pain. There was a lot of laughing. So if you're feeling – if you feel guilty for not being there, don't."

"Fuck you," Connor said. "You don't know what I'm feeling." But he blinked fast, and his voice was hoarse with unshed tears.

Daniel shrugged. Well, he'd tried.

His phone vibrated once in his hand, and he looked down to see a text from Betty: _OMG I'm calling 911._

Quickly he typed back:_ It's all good! Connor's ok. Not trying to kill me. _

_Don't scare me like that!_

_Sorry!_

_Going to TKD. If Connor gives u trouble text me and I'll come kick his ass. _

Despite the somber mood in the room, Daniel had to smile a little._ OK._

"I met her just after her remission, you know." Connor's hands were jammed into his pockets, as if that was the only way he could restrain himself from moving. "Molly said her survival was a miracle. She made me believe – that anything was possible. Even me living an entirely different kind of life. Being an entirely different kind of man." His expression was horrible – caught between a smirk and a grimace of pain. "Guess the miracles ran out for all of us."

Daniel's throat tightened, but he managed to say, "Molly got the only miracle she asked for – more time. More happiness. More love." He thought of Betty across town, worrying about him, blithely talking about sex and waffles in the same breath and tone of voice. "That's still out there for us, I guess. If we're as brave as Molly was. If we run out there and take it."

Connor wiped at his face; Daniel did him the courtesy of not looking too closely to see any evidence of tears.

Finally Connor said, "You'll leave Willie alone."

"MODE wouldn't be the same without her. Besides, she's not a suspect." Nor was Connor, in Daniel's opinion: After this, he knew they could scratch him off the list of people to be questioned. He didn't know how he knew, but he was as sure of it as he'd ever been of anything. Maybe that was Molly telling him, from beyond, how she'd once seen something in Connor Owens worthy of love.

Hadn't he, back in the days when they were friends?

"All right, then." Connor stalked to the door. He paused with it half open and looked back at Daniel; though he said nothing, when their eyes met, the old recrimination was finally gone. Their friendship was nowhere near resurrection, if such a thing was even possible, but maybe the hatred could start to fade.

When the door shut, Daniel thought again how amazingly powerful it was – saying the thing that hadn't been said.

Betty really was right about everything.

**oooooo**

The second round of suspects were perhaps less likely people to consider – but still a dangerous, volatile lot.

"I'm in France," Alexis said. "Across the Atlantic Ocean."

"You've hired hit men before," Yoga pointed out. She sat in the head office of Meade Publications – Fish was in a HOT FLASH meeting – feet up on the desk, hands steepled, trying on her best corporate shark vibe. It fit her like a glove. _Wonder how I'd look on the cover of FORBES? Damn, girl, focus._ "You hired them to kill members of your immediate family, even. And you've done Daniel some bad turns."

"True, true and true. But I've never tried to murder him."

Yoga remembered some things Fish had told her about her one and only grandson. "DJ still loves Daniel like a father. Maybe you wish that love was all for you."

Alexis sucked in a sharp breath. "Low blow."

"Attempted murder is low-down business."

"Does my mother know you called me about this?"

"No. I hope we can leave it that way. Don't you? So help me out here."

With a sigh, Alexis said, "Daniel's a doofus. But he's my doofus younger brother, and I love him. I'd never try to kill him. Sure, I pound his ego into a fine powder any chance I get, but – hell, that's half the fun."

That made sense. Yoga wondered if perhaps she'd hung around the Meades too long already.

Other suspects were much closer to hand.

"You were Daniel's assistant," Yoga said, trying not to be blinded by the rainbow light from a nearby suncatcher prism. "You two were friends. Then you had a falling out."

"No," Natalie said as she rearranged novelty candles shaped like birds rising from orange wax flames. "I was betrayed. Daniel turned his back on me. On the entire Order of the Phoenix. We were his brothers and sisters on the journey, but he abandoned us."

They sat in the "visitor's center" of the Order of the Phoenix headquarters – not quite as bustling as it had been during its heyday, according to Fish; the public revelations about their leader's background had cost them some believers. But not all. A few wan, mournful souls still wandered the halls, and Natalie sat behind a cash register in a small shop that sold books and DVDs titled "Triumph Over Death," and various New Age knick-knack crap. Right now, she was using a price gun to mark down a purple banner reading "Resurrect Your Spirit!" to 40% off.

"Why do you care about Daniel leaving the Order?" Yoga said. "What's it to do with you?"

"Don't you see?" Natalie tugged fitfully at a lock of her hair. "They were going to let me let me ascend – if I'd just been able to guide Daniel on the path. He actually reached Molly at the end. He broke down all the barriers! Daniel actually saw the bridge between life and death! Ask him! But he still walked out. How could anybody do that?"

This all sounded like so much craziness to Yoga, who had high standards for this kind of thing after her first cellmate, Nadine Gasoline, who had started burning down Taco Bells because she believed she had been so instructed by Our Lady of Guadalupe. "So you admit – you're angry at the man. Angry enough to kill him?"

Natalie cocked her head, her expression pitying. "You don't get it, do you? If Daniel died, he'd just be reunited with Molly on Level Seven." Her dark eyes snapped with anger. "He doesn't deserve anything that great."

Yoga got out of there as fast as she could. The whole place gave her the creeps.

The conversation with Sofia had suggested that ex-girlfriends might comprise a long list of potential suspects, but the most recent one was in the clear.

"Oh, hey! Are you a friend of Daniel's?" Trista let her into her Soho studio, beaming and cheerful, and also totally unembarrassed despite the fact that she wore only a pink camisole and matching boyshorts. Also despite the fact that there was another guy in her bed – in a T-shirt and boxers, which must count as dressed for these people. "It's so awesome to meet you!"

"Where the hell has he got himself to these days?" the guy said. "I haven't seen him clubbing in a year and a half. What's up with that? He's totally over the widower thing, right?"

Yoga stared. "You know Daniel?"

"Tell him Becks says hi," the guy responded with a grin. "Also tell him thanks for giving me a pickup line with this beautiful babe, huh?"

Trista giggled. "Becks said he could heal my broken heart. Which wasn't broken or anything, but still, how sweet is that?"

This took a couple of seconds to process. "So you're completely over Daniel, and you're dating an old friend of his, and you're both all right with the whole situation."

"Yeah, sure," Becks said. "Daniel never even banged her! Just one hand job."

"Total quickie," Trista affirmed.

Yoga tried to keep her eyebrows from rising all the way to her hairline. "Good to know. I'll tell him you both said hello; how's that?"

"Awesome! But – " Trista's head tilted to one side, sloping her ponytail over her shoulder. "I thought you were investigating, like, a murder or something?"

"Nobody's dead yet."

"Oh, okay." As far as Trista was concerned, that seemed to end the matter. Yoga had already crossed her off the list of suspects; she figured the girl wouldn't even begin to know how to sabotage a helicopter, even if she wanted to.

When Yoga walked out of the apartment building, she pulled out the list of Daniel's exes, as compiled by his mother, Amanda Tanen and the "Daniel Meade: Manslut" tag on . It unscrolled to fall all the way down to the sidewalk and puddle at her feet.

Obviously this was going to take a while.

**oooooo**

"Obviously it's going to take a while," Tyler said to Amanda – but really, to himself – as they walked up Lexington Avenue. "He didn't even know I existed before about six months ago. Mom always knew, so, naturally, she'd had some time to prepare herself."

"Totally," Amanda replied. Her face was set, and her platform sandals clomped along the pavement in as rigid a rhythm as if she'd been marching.

"You're worried."

Amanda turned her face to him, eyes wide behind her Jackie Os. "I don't want you to get hurt."

"I don't either," he said, trying to make a joke of it, but the gnawing emptiness in his belly rendered that impossible. The truth was, doing this scared him to death. But not doing it – never confronting or even meeting his birth father – scared him even more. "You'll be here with me. That means I'm okay, no matter what. Even if he rejects me."

"That's not what scares me," Amanda said.

Tyler frowned at her as their steps slowed. The crowds in this area of New York were a little more refined, their pace just a tad more unhurried than in the rest of the city – but woe betide they block the sidewalk. He drew Amanda to one side. "What do you mean?"

"Cal Hartley's an awful person," she blurted out. "Not a little awful. Extra family-value size awful. He used to humiliate Daniel all the time just to show he could. Plus he was gross to Claire. He even fired Wilhelmina, and that was when she wasn't even trying to blackmail anybody. Just to be mean, and nearly wreck MODE in the bargain. He did a real number on Matt's head, too; the guy could never decide what he wanted to be mostly because he couldn't decide what would piss off his father the most."

Matt Hartley – Tyler's other brother, the one he had yet to meet. That was a whole other relationship he'd have to deal with down the line, but Tyler resolved not to worry about it today.

Amanda continued, "So if Cal doesn't reject you, he's going to … absorb you. Try to take you away from the Meades and from me. Try to turn you all evil inside like he is. Because he's evil down to the crème filling."

What would he do, if his father offered him love and acceptance – but the price was turning his back on his mother? Tyler had never considered that before. He knew the answer, though: "I'm not letting him control me. Okay? Just stick by my side."

"Always." She said it lightly, as if it were nothing; of course, it was anything but. The weight of her arm on his steadied Tyler and made him strong as he walked up to the Hartley building.

Just as they reached the door, though, Cal Hartley himself walked out. Despite the June heat, he wore a camel-hair coat similar to one Tyler had modeled a couple months ago and thus knew cost about $5000. His gaze was steely, his expression unreadable. He wasn't particularly tall, which surprised Tyler; apparently his own height sprang from that same rogue gene that Alexis inherited.

Cal saw Tyler about one second later. He froze in place, and Amanda's hand tightened around Tyler's elbow. _Courage_, he told himself, and he said only, "Hello."

"So, the next step is harassing me at my place of employment." Cal adjusted the collar of his stupidly expensive, unnecessary coat. "If this escalates, I'll have to get a restraining order. Let me tell you right now – don't even think about coming to my home. This entire charade is upsetting enough to my wife as it is."

"You're still insisting this is a charade," Tyler said, surprised at how even his voice was. "You know better. We both understand that. But you won't admit anything."

"I admit I got Claire Meade pregnant," Cal said, surprising him. "But she had an abortion, and that ended the matter. She did that because she used to be a smart woman. Looks like the booze finally rotted her brain, though, because she'll clutch at any straw to get at me now. To get to you, too."

_Was it all a lie? _Tyler rejected that immediately – he knew better – but it was uncanny how quickly, and destructively, Cal Hartley could get into your head.

Cal continued, "Honestly. Look at you. She couldn't have found someone better than this for her little game? You don't look a damn thing like me."

"That's right," Amanda said, stepping between them. "Tyler is _nothing _like you."

If Cal understood the insult, he gave no sign. "We're done here. I meant what I said about the restraining order." With that, he stalked away, not even glancing back.

After a few moments, Tyler started walking toward the nearest subway stop. Amanda fell in at his side; she said nothing at first, for which he was grateful. He needed a while.

Just before they reached the 6 train, they walked past a bar, one of the old-fashioned ones with wood paneling on the walls and big, comfortable leather booths that practically begged passers-by to stop in, take a load off their feet and forget their troubles for a while. Tyler had been in plenty of those before. He'd never forgotten his troubles for long.

"Tyler," Amanda whispered. "Are you okay?"

He looked over at her, and just the sight of her face made him smile. As long as that was true … "Better than okay. Because I'm with you."

The subway steps weren't exactly the most romantic place in the world to kiss, but it turned out they weren't half bad.

**oooooo**

Across town, at the NYRB offices, Betty was wearing a hot pink dress.

She'd hesitated this morning. Her wardrobe was short on gray and black - but she did have a white sheath dress that didn't necessarily _have _to be paired with her chunky turquoise jewelry. She even had a navy blue skirt. Fitting in was possible.

But since when had she worried about fitting in? NYRB seemed like her dream come true … only if it was a place where Betty could be herself. That meant embracing color. Embracing laughter. And learning the value of what wasn't being said.

_This fish knows how to swim out of water_, Betty reminded herself, and hummed a bit of "Part Of Your World" as she eased into her day.

At the morning meeting, the entire group worked on a couple of the other pitches that had required refinement. Betty noted she wasn't listened to very much yet, but that was only to be expected. She was new and unproved. Plus, her first pitch had fallen short. Now, though, she intended to get another at-bat.

Jackson Noble said, "So, Betty, anything else to tell us about drag queens?"

Though his question seemed sincere enough, she noticed a few stifled smiles around the table. Maybe her subject didn't seem appropriately "serious" or "highbrow" to some of the trust-fund babies at the table. Her time at MODE had taught her that there were layers to even the most frivolous topics, though, and she'd just discovered another.

"You wanted to know what people weren't talking about," Betty said. "They're not talking about drag kings – women who dress as men."

She slid a copy of a new book across the table – an obscure volume from a university press, but a well-written one: in other words, the kind of thing the NYRB ate up. On the cover was a photograph from the 1940s of Latina women wearing boxy, hyper-styled men's suits as they were led toward a squad car, clearly under arrest.

It was so easy to imagine herself in an old newsreel, wearing a defiant black men's suit and deep red lipstick, her hair slicked into an exaggerated coif, holding up her cuffed wrists and sneering at the cops who'd dared to drag her in. Betty was no drag king, and no criminal, but these women had felt like outsiders too – and that, at least, she understood completely.

"These days, gay culture _is_ culture, at least as far as mainstream fashion is concerned," she continued. "But there's an equally strong tradition of cross-dressing among lesbians, and it tends to go unnoticed. This book talks about La Pachuca gangs from the 1940s – Latina lesbians who wore men's clothes, got mixed up in all kinds of trouble and were usually given more crap about how they dressed than the crimes they committed. I could use that historical basis to talk about the relative invisibility of lesbian drag, at least as compared to the attention currently being paid to cross-dressing men."

Slowly, Jackson nodded. "Interesting. Not our usual sort of topic, but – when you bring in the scholarly side – show us what we're not seeing – I like it."

Betty met the eyes of one of the doubters across the table, and there was no stifling her own smile.

"_Watch and you'll see, someday I'll be part of your world." _

She couldn't wait to tell her own Prince Eric about this …

**oooooo**

"I knew they'd realize you were a genius," Daniel said later that afternoon, around about the time he would normally have gone home. Of course, he hadn't gone anywhere else for days and days, so it sort of took the shine off the hour. Betty's good news helped. "Once you figured out what wasn't being said."

"With a little help from you."

"Hardly. You were the one who put all of that together. I just – put it into practice with you." Daniel still found it hard to believe he'd had an actual civil conversation with Connor Owens, but that was the kind of miracle Betty worked all the time.

"And showed me how much fun it could be," she said. "Flirting over the phone isn't ideal, but – you know, it has its moments."

"Speaking of which … right before Connor dropped by, you'd brought up a very interesting subject."

"Oh. Right." She hesitated, shyer now than she'd been a day ago when they'd been talking for three hours already. "Sex."

This had seemed so incredibly tantalizing before; now, it was a little more awkward. How did you segue back into that subject? "Well, I'm in favor."

Betty burst out laughing, and Daniel had to smile. That wasn't the mood he'd been going for, but it helped. "It's kind of weird thinking about it, you know? You and me."

"Kind of, but in a good way." This was difficult to admit, but Daniel figured if he couldn't be honest with her, he couldn't be honest with anyone – and this was all about saying what needed to be said. "I'm a little nervous."

"About what?"

"Being with you for the first time."

"Wait – you're nervous about being with me? You're the one PLAYBOY called 'Hef's Heir Apparent.'"

"That was three years ago!"

"Still. It kind of freaks a normal girl out, you know? I mean, Matt had slept with a lot of girls, but mostly they were just, well, cheap. And even that scared me. You – you're the one who's slept with … Angelina Jolie and Sofia Reyes and – okay, you didn't sleep with Gisele Bundchen, but she was totally willing to go out with you. So you probably _could have_ slept with her. That's really intimidating."

A small shadow passed over Daniel's mood at the mention of Matt Hartley; thinking about Betty's ex, aka A Guy Who Had Already Gotten To Kiss Betty While Daniel Had Not, was no fun. But he focused on what was important. "None of those girls count."

"Really? The dictionary must have redefined virginity recently. Significantly redefined."

"That's not what I mean." Daniel shook his head. "Those women only saw the face I showed the world. You know? I could pretend to be this cool, successful, invulnerable guy. Even in bed. I got really good at pretending there." He swallowed hard; the next was tough to say. But that was the whole point. "With you – I don't want to pretend. I couldn't even if I wanted to. You know what scares me, what hurts me. All the … small, shabby places inside I hide from everyone else: they're not hidden from you. It's hard for me to believe that somebody as amazing as you could see that and still want me."

"Oh, Daniel." Her voice was hardly more than a whisper. "Don't you understand how incredible you are? The man you've become? I do. I promise, I do."

That was encouraging, but Daniel still felt more comfortable keeping the focus on her. "And don't think for one second that I'm, like, comparing you with Angelina Jolie. That was one time in the back of a limo, plus she scratched my back really hard." Some guys went for that but Daniel definitely did not. "The past couple months – I've hardly been able to look at you without making a fool of myself. I notice … your legs, your curves – that blue dress you wore to that apartment I looked at, you know, the loft? I was practically ready to tear that off you. These days – I can't notice anybody but you."

"Really?" Betty's bubbly confidence was such a steady part of her character that it sometimes caught Daniel off-guard when he glimpsed her vulnerability, as he did now. "That's what you see when you look at me?"

A smile tugged at his lips. "During the last few weeks – Betty, I have thought of so many X-rated uses for a La-Z-Boy recliner – "

"You too?"

They both started laughing so hard that for a second they couldn't speak any longer. But talking about this – and thinking about that night at her father's home, where they'd laid side by side in that recliner, bodies touching from feet to bellies to arms, Betty's lips only a few inches away from his – it made Daniel's self-control (always fragile) seriously slip.

Once they could talk again, Betty said, still giggling, "You want me in a recliner?"

He imagined her lying next to him again, this time aware, this time ready, and it was almost enough to make him reel. Quietly, he said, "I want you every way I can have you."

"Oh," she whispered, and they were quiet together for a moment that held only the sound of their breathing, the quickening rush of blood in his body. He could imagine her heartbeat rising too, the way her pulse would feel in her throat as he pressed his lips to it. "It's not like I didn't always know you were beautiful. There was no missing that. But it's as if … the day I met you, I just put up this little mental sign that said, 'not for you.' You know, it wasn't happening. No point in daydreaming about it, wanting it, even thinking it. And I didn't. But that sign has come down and I just – I'm still wrapping my mind around it. I can't believe it, and I can't believe I ever didn't want it, and now – "

There was only so much a man could take. "I have to see you," Daniel said.

"You mean – like, on Skype?"

"What? No. Remember all the stuff about the Meade Building zoning forms?"

"Where you have to sign off on the papers after an on-site inspection? Yeah. That's in a couple days, right?" Betty sounded hopeful. "You'll have bodyguards for that, so – I could meet you there – "

"Tonight," he said.

"Daniel, no. It's dangerous."

"First of all, I'm not even sure anybody's actually deliberately trying to kill me anymore," he pointed out. "Second, what's safer than the element of surprise? The killer, if there is one, might have heard I was going to Meade soon. So they won't expect me to go tonight. It's the smartest thing to do anyway! Even if you weren't going to meet me there … but you are, right?"

Betty hesitated. Daniel held his breath. "I don't know, Daniel. If anything happened –"

"The entire building has security. I'll even have to call them to make sure you can get in, now that you don't have a building pass. I'll take the town car and driver. It's at least as safe as my staying here, maybe more." He started looking frantically around his room for his shoes; days of hanging out around the house led to days of wearing nothing but sweatpants and T-shirts. "If I didn't think we would both be safe – you particularly – I wouldn't suggest this. But we are. And God, I need to see you."

"Me too. Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay. Yes. I'll meet you in your office. In – one hour?"

"A whole hour?" Daniel was aware that this was dangerously close to whining, but come on, hadn't he waited long enough?

"_Some_ people come home after work and figure a night on their own without Tae Kwon Do lessons is a really good opportunity to put a deep moisturizing oil treatment on their hair."

"What would you have done if I'd said yes to Skype?"

"Well, then I only would've needed half an hour," she said reasonably.

"Right, got it." Daniel could envision the scene now. He'd order delivery from their favorite Chinese place, have it ready and waiting for her. Light a couple candles, maybe. Sign the stupid papers and get them out of the way. They could sit side by side on the white leather chaise – he could finally touch her, finally take her in his arms, finally kiss her. "One hour."

"One hour," she said, and it was a promise.

So he left a note for his mom, or Tyler, whoever got home first, explaining what he'd done and why. He called in to Meade Building security and told them to admit Betty Suarez, without even mentioning to them that he was coming in too; just because he was acting impulsively didn't mean he intended to be reckless. They'd be fine as long as they weren't being watched that very second.

Good jeans. Black T-shirt. A little cologne – not too much, because that always made her sneeze. Daniel checked his hair in the mirror, brushed his teeth, and dashed to the town car so quickly that he nearly tripped down the steps.

As they pulled out, heading toward the Meade Building, an observer across the street said to their cab driver, "Follow that car."

**oooooo**

Meanwhile, at a café a few blocks away, a strategy meeting was being held over sparkling water and roast quail.

"I still suspect Connor Owens," Fish said, shaking her head. "He's the most obvious candidate. He's shown himself willing to break the law, and a few months in prison won't have made him any softer."

"In minimum-security executive prison," Yoga pointed out. "He didn't do hard time like you and me. Most likely thing Connor learned in the big house was tips to lower his golf score."

"Well, then, whom do you suggest?"

"I got the weirdest vibes off that cult chick. Don't think she went after him herself, but there might be someone else in the Order of the Phoenix who feels different about it." Yoga's phone buzzed, and her eyes widened as she stared at the screen. "Look at that. A clue is calling."

Claire paused, forkful of quail halfway to her mouth. "What is it?"

"Bribed the dude at the helipad to send me some of the security footage that night. They don't have anything of the actual crime scene, but all we need is one of our suspects walking in or out."

She brought the phone to the tabletop. They watched the video on fast forward. And then a figure walked through. Yoga didn't recognize the face right away, but when Fish stiffened and gasped, she realized who they were dealing with.

"Oh, my God," Claire said. "We have to call Daniel. And Betty, too!"

"Betty?"

"I'll explain later, but the drive-by – that wasn't an accident. Betty's in as much danger as Daniel."

**oooooo**

Betty hadn't been away from MODE long enough to miss it, exactly, but it felt nicely familiar coming through the front door.

She hadn't needed to get a security pass since her first day, but the guys were friendly, and within only a minute or two she was walking back toward the locked doors that led to the main elevator bank.

Her pulse thrummed along every inch of her skin, and she found herself touching her hair, her lips, as if checking and double-checking herself before Daniel would see her. Betty knew it was a little rash, running out like this – hardly ideal first-date material –

-but their first date had been the gala at the Met, when she'd danced in his arms before the Temple of Dendur, with the Heart of Kashmir glowing nearby. So what if she hadn't known it yet? Tonight was just about being near him. Kissing him. Finally turning her friendship with Daniel into a romance.

She'd even changed into the peacock blue dress he'd mentioned … the one he'd said he wanted to rip off her. Not that she necessarily thought they'd go there tonight – but it wasn't out of the question, and if Daniel did try to rip her dress off, Betty was pretty sure she would have no objections.

_This is it_, she thought. _This is the night everything changes for us. Forever. _

Even though her cheeks flushed with excitement, Betty felt a small twinge of sadness, too. It wasn't so strange, really; her friendship with Daniel had been one of the most meaningful of her life. Letting it go made her a little melancholy, even if they were moving on to something better. It was okay to feel that moment of loss, to acknowledge it, before walking into their brighter future.

Behind her, she heard the security door chirp; some staffer was coming in as well. Daniel would have come from the garage entrance, so it couldn't be him. Betty profoundly hoped it wouldn't be anybody she knew. This was the wrong time to have to trade barbs with Marc. Or pretend to be nice to Sofia. Or, God forbid, run into Claire Meade, who would no doubt be livid that Betty had tempted Daniel out of his safe fortress.

Just in case it was somebody she knew, though, Betty glanced over her shoulder as she stepped in the elevator, determined to be polite – and gasped.

The security pass hung on a dark red strap she recognized … one that had belonged to her ex-boyfriend, Matt Hartley.

It was now dangling from the wrist of his mother, Victoria.

From the same hand in which she held the gun.

END

_Next episode in "Season Five: New York, New York" – "Blood and Roses."_

_(Songs: "Pink Champagne," Venus Hum; "Hold You In My Arms," Ray LaMontagne; "Bei Mir Bist Du Schon," Waldeck)_


	14. Blood and Roses, Part One

**Blood and Roses**

Betty realized later – having a gun thrust in your face did weird things to your brain.

One second before, she'd been happy and excited, her mind zipping in a hundred directions at once – from wondering what kissing Daniel would be like to feeling nostalgic for the Meade Publications building to wondering whether she could repair the blue dress she was wearing if it were, in fact, ripped off as an act of passion. But seeing Victoria Hartley – and the gun she was holding – made her entire world shrink.

She could think of nothing but the danger, could see nothing but the muzzle. She was nothing but fast pulse and shallow breath.

"Get in," Victoria said evenly. She might have been inviting Betty into her town car for a jaunt to the opera. Her hair was shaped in a perfect, hair-sprayed helmet. "Say nothing."

Betty wanted to scream, but that seemed like a good way to get shot. It also seemed like a good way to get the security guards shot – and for all that they wore uniforms, she knew they didn't have weapons to defend themselves. Numbly, she backed into the elevator, and Victoria followed.

As the doors slid shut, enclosing them, Victoria said, "You're meeting Daniel Meade, aren't you? Take me there." Her thin lips pressed into a white line that Betty recognized as the woman's best attempt at a smile.

_Oh, my God. She's the one trying to murder him!_ Betty couldn't imagine why Victoria wanted to hurt Daniel, but she also knew there was no way she was allowing that woman to get anywhere near him. Hand trembling, she pressed a button on the elevator panel, almost at random – the photo studio, maybe – but definitely not the MODE offices.

Daniel would be waiting for her up there, so eager, so hopeful, totally aware that anything was wrong. Would he search for her? Would he think she'd stood him up?

All she knew was that Daniel had to stay far away from all of this … and that she would have to think fast to save herself.

**oooooo**

Candles, candles – why didn't this office have any candles?

Daniel had already scoured the storeroom where they'd kept the unused Fashion Week swag bags (which had included designer scented candles), the receptionist's desk and the supply room. This had turned up plenty of pens, a few stray bottles of the latest Chloe perfume, and a jumbo bag of Almond Joys that Amanda had apparently left behind. But no candles.

_Should've known the staff would leave no swag untouched_, he thought

Maybe MODE was romantic enough on its own, he thought. He'd certainly found it adequate for trysts with any number of girls before – but no. Betty was different. Special. He had to find some way to set the mood.

Actually, come to think of it, Betty was also late.

He pulled out his iPhone: no emails, no texts. Daniel quickly tapped out, _Can't wait to see you. ETA? _

No response came.

Well, that was hardly surprising. Probably Betty was on the subway, and she wouldn't be able to get reception there. The few months of his life that Daniel had been compelled to take public transit had taught him that trains could be amazingly slow, and that they could somehow sense when the people aboard them wanted to get to their destination very quickly, which only made them slow down further. If Betty was half as eager to see him as he was to see her, that train was probably crawling.

With a sigh, Daniel turned back to the scene he was endeavoring to create in his office. He'd decided against ordering Chinese; he'd take Betty out for a late, romantic dinner in an hour or two. But he'd only turned on the lamps to create what mood lighting he could and had cleared off his desk and the chaise longue, both to make the place look better and to clear space so they had the potential to make out on any and all surfaces. He had managed to find a bottle of wine left over from Betty's farewell party, which was uncorked and "breathing," hopefully to taste better in the plastic cups he'd dug up.

Daniel set his iPhone in the dock and got some soft music started. Perfect, he told himself.

But what was ever perfect enough for Betty?

This night – this was going to be one of the big events of his life. One of the unforgettable moments, like losing his virginity, or Alex's supposed "death," or Sofia dumping him on live TV, or his wedding to Molly, Dad's death, or the moment he'd learned he wasn't really DJ's father. Most of those big events, he realized, had been tragic; even his wedding had been death-shadowed and bittersweet, and losing your virginity to a girl you later found out had only been acting on a dare from your big brother, a.k.a. the guy she actually liked – well, if that wasn't tragic, he didn't know what was.

Which meant this was likely to be the most joyful moment he'd ever known.

Come on. There _had_ to be some candles around for this.

He glanced again at his phone, seeking messages. No reply yet. Betty had to be several minutes away yet. That gave him time. Daniel grabbed the phone (time to play music later, plus she might yet text him) and hurried to the elevators, determined to find a candle if he had to search every single room in the Meade Publications building.

**oooooo**

It wasn't like Amanda hadn't already known she was a super-mega-genius, but tonight just made it totally undeniable.

Tyler had been all torn up after his father was such a horse's butt to him. This meant that he needed something to do to keep his mind off anything and everything connected with Cal Hartley. And he'd mentioned, just in passing, that a photographer had contacted him about doing some freelance work, artistic shots, if he ever had time. Anybody might have figured out that this would be a good night to call the photog and see if he had a couple of hours to do it.

But only a super-mega-genius would have asked the extra questions to find out that the photographer was none other than Cliff St. Paul, and then gone on to invite Marc along. Because photo shoots needed stylists! She should know: Despite Penelope Kerr's increasing success, Amanda's main source of income remained the cash she made at MODE. And of course, now that she was a sort of senior stylist, she would need her own assistant, and Marc could do that. Plus flirt with Cliff.

This was the kind of thing that put the super in front of the mega-genius.

It looked like Cliff would agree, once he learned the whole story, way later, maybe at his and Marc's commitment ceremony reception. He was trying to play it cool, but his eyes kept darting over to Marc like he was something delicious, something scrumptious … hadn't she left some Almond Joys around here?

"I didn't know you did photo styling," Cliff said, glancing sideways at Marc as he set up his tripod. "Isn't that, I don't know, beneath you?"

"Not at all. Happy to help out," Marc said, way too cheerfully. He needed to turn it down, like, five or six notches; Amanda would whisper that at her next opportunity. "Besides, we're in the Meade photo studios. You should have a full-time staffer here. Just in case anybody asks questions."

"Nobody's ever objected to my doing freelance shoots here before. I've got a security pass." Cliff lifted the pass around his neck, which hung on a zebra-printed strap. More quietly, he said, "But, you know – thanks for pitching in."

Oh, yeah, all she'd have to do was make sure she and her honey got out of here as soon as the shoot was done. Then Marc and Cliff could "clean up" 'til dawn. With a grin, Amanda turned her attention to Tyler, who still looked drawn and tense. "Okay, you. Ready to get naked?"

Everyone stared at her. Cliff finally said, "This isn't a nude shoot."

She cocked her head. "But I thought you said these photos were artistic."

Marc put his arm around her shoulders. "Sweetie, artistic doesn't always mean naked, no matter what that weird guy in the Hawaiian shirt told you four years ago."

_Ohhhh._

Just when she might have started feeling stupid, Tyler touched her hand for just a moment, which she knew was a reminder that he thought she was great – and how did she know that? It was like they had love telepathy or something. He didn't even have to say anything to her; instead he spoke to Cliff. "Okay, where do you want me?"

Any inch of the photo studio could have been a potential backdrop. The shimmering silver veils hanging from jeweled rods belonged to a MODE shoot; there was no telling which magazine had left behind all the larger-than-life plaster angels, which looked atmospheric in shadow. But Cliff pointed at the far corner of the studio, where several packing crates held equipment for an upcoming HUDSON shoot. "We'll be over here. Extreme close-ups, the rough wood in the background – black and white – it's going to be interesting, I think. Something different for my portfolio."

"Sounds fabulous," Marc said, still in Gush Mode.

Well, he'd calm down as soon as this started feeling less like an awkward double date and more like a real photo shoot. And anybody knew a photo shoot didn't feel real without music. Amanda hit play. As dance music filled the room, she grinned at all of them and said, "Hey, nobody's around for us to bother, right? Let's kick it." She pushed the volume up, up, up, as loud as it would go, because the drumbeats would make Marc's fear go away, and remind Cliff of all the good parties they used to go to together, and help Tyler relax into the moment.

As for her, she was just gonna love it, because there were few things Amanda enjoyed more than loud music when there was nobody around to yell at her to turn it down.

**oooooo**

"Who is that?" Betty blurted as dance music began to echo down the hall from the elevators.

"Not Daniel, then?" Victoria Hartley gave her an appraising look as the elevator doors slid shut behind them. "Somebody else is nearby. That's inconvenient. But at least someone will find the bodies right away."

"Mrs. Hartley –" It was difficult to find the words. Betty had never had a good relationship with the woman, who was both cold and snobbish. But she'd never imagined that Victoria was capable of murder. And why would she want to kill _Daniel_? Had they even met? A possible explanation occurred to her; it made no sense, but then, wanting to hurt Daniel could never make sense to Betty. "You know Matt and I split, like, months ago, right? So I'm definitely not cheating on him with Daniel."

Victoria's eyes narrowed. "You're trying to replace Matt. That's not going to happen."

Okay, that was kind of insanely overprotective. Then again, judging from the look in Victoria's eyes and the gun (_ohmygod ohmygod it's a gun it's a real gun and it's pointed at me_), insanity pretty much had to come into the explanation somewhere.

Though the building's air conditioning got kind of maniacal in the summers, encouraging all the MODE staffers to start wearing their winter fashions five months early, Betty's skin was already slick with sweat. Her heart had been racing for so long that she felt weak from it. Yet her mind remained sharp – if anything, even sharper. Danger focused the mind, Betty realized. It was survival instinct. She wanted to get through this and keep Daniel far away from harm, she had to be able to think fast.

For a moment Betty found herself thinking of her father, at home in Queens, recuperating from the heart attack that had nearly killed him. If she got hurt, or worse, what would that shock do to him?

No, she wasn't just fighting for her own life here. A lot depended on her getting out of this in one piece.

But how?

She tried a different tack: "Your husband would want to know about this, don't you think?"

"Cal tells me to calm down," Victoria said. "He wants me to see a doctor. The doctor thinks I should take pills. As if pills can solve this kind of problem."

Knowing Cal Hartley also thought his wife was nuts was validating, but not at all comforting. "But he loves you. You guys are back together. That means you're partners, right? So he'd want to hear how you are, and what you're thinking."

Victoria's severe expression softened briefly, and a slender hope illuminated Betty's heart like a shaft of light. "He worries. I know he worries."

"And you don't want him to worry, right? So why not call him? Just explain what's going on." Cal Hartley might be a lousy human being, Betty thought, but there was no way he'd let his wife murder somebody in cold blood. Then she remembered his steely, piercing eyes and wasn't so sure. But it was worth trying.

That temporary hope dwindled as Victoria shook her head. "I'm taking care of this for him. For us. He'll understand." She cocked her head. "You aren't meeting Daniel Meade here, are you? Someone else? I suppose you don't care who you replace my son with. Anyone and everyone, perhaps."

Betty said nothing. The truth would endanger Daniel; any lie would be painfully transparent, at this point. Though she and Victoria stood as far apart as ever, and Victoria's hands on the gun had remained remarkably steady, she nonetheless understood that something in the room had changed … and not for the better.

A new wave of fear washed over her, even colder and more overpowering than before. _Oh, my God_, Betty realized. _This is really going to happen. _

"I need to look for Daniel now. But I can't do that while you're with me." Victoria pointed to the floor. "Kneel, would you?"

Betty didn't move. "Mrs. Hartley – think this over – "

"I have. It doesn't really matter if they find your bodies together or apart."

Obviously Betty would have to try something else. She had no idea what. Going on the offensive? Trying a Tae Kwon Do move? By now she doubted anything she could do would save her life.

But there was no way she was going to kneel at Victoria Hartley's feet.

**oooooo**

Daniel had taken the stairs down each flight, the better to make sure his body looked good for Betty, who was really kind of crazy late by now – or maybe waiting for him in the office upstairs? No, she'd have texted him if she were off the subway. Probably she was stuck because of a service change or broken train or some police incident. Just their luck.

That was okay, though. He'd managed to wait weeks for this; he could hang on a few minutes more.

As he entered the floor with the photo studios, he overheard some distant dance music. Oh, right, he'd seen a memo; some photog from HUDSON had asked to do some freelance stuff at night. Though it was slightly dismaying not to have the whole building for whatever romantic adventures he and Betty would get up to later, Daniel had to admit that particular aspect of his fantasy was kind of overkill. Probably it would take more than one night to make love to her on every single floor of Meade Publications; he ought to allow at least a week or two. They could start with MODE and get to the photo studio later. Like, Saturday. And hey, maybe the photographer had candles.

He walked toward the studio, through the darkened hallways, illuminated only by emergency EXIT signs. A light shone nearer the elevators, though –

Daniel froze at what he saw: Betty being held at gunpoint, by … Jesus, was that Victoria Hartley?

At first it made no sense, like his brain understood what the image was but refused to translate it into reality he could understand. It was the blank fear in Betty's eyes that sank in first, an expression so stark and so terrible that he felt it with nearly physical pain. Then terror gripped him as he realized that was he was seeing was real, and that Betty was in horrible danger.

Victoria Hartley – was she the one who'd tried to kill him? The would-be murderer he'd convinced himself didn't exist? He'd let his hormones get the better of him, and he'd lured Betty out here, and now – oh, God.

"_Mrs. Hartley – think this over – "_

"_I have. It doesn't really matter if they find your bodies together or apart." _

The small, scared side of him wanted to run as far away as he could from his attempted killer, as fast as possible. The stronger side of him – the side that had fallen for Betty Suarez – made him want to run out there between her and that gun.

There was never any question which side was going to win.

But temporarily, he made both of them take a back seat to his much-neglected, yet ever-improving, smart side.

Quickly Daniel texted his mother: _Being held hostage by V. Hartley near photo studio in MP building. Betty too. Get cops. Come quick. _His fingers shook, but he made sure to be accurate. This was no time for autocomplete to confuse things. Once he was sure the message was correct, he sent it and prayed that Mom was actually checking her phone right now.

Then he set the phone down, took a deep breath, and walked down the hallway toward Betty.

It took a couple steps for them to notice him. When Victoria straightened, stepping back to angle the gun at him, Betty cried out, a sound of despair – like him being in trouble was worse than her being here alone. Which was nuts. But they could argue that later. Daniel held up his hands as he said, "Let's all take it easy."

"Why not?" Victoria said. "Everything just became so much easier. If you and Betty could kneel down together –"

"Daniel, don't," Betty whispered.

He didn't need to be told that. The first time he got on his knees beside Betty was _not_ going to be for a gangland-style execution.

So Daniel kept moving forward until he was able to step between Betty and Victoria, effectively shielding her from the gun. Betty's hands pushed against his back, obviously trying to keep him from taking all the risk, but Daniel didn't let her move him. It wasn't that he _enjoyed _putting himself in harm's way – at the moment, it was all he could do to keep from peeing his pants – but it was still less terrifying than seeing Betty held hostage, unprotected.

"Don't tell me," Victoria said, with a waspish humor that made her seem almost like her old self for a moment. "I'll have to go through you to get to her."

"Something like that." Daniel kept his arms slightly out from his sides, the better to keep Betty from trying to do something dangerous like darting back into range.

Victoria shrugged. "Fine by me."

**oooooo**

Halfway across town, as Yoga frantically motioned the slow waiter to bring them their check already, Claire tried Betty's phone yet again: Still no answer. Daniel wasn't answering at home, either. He couldn't possibly have been reckless enough to leave the house unguarded, could he?

Just as she prepared to call his cell, and to begin that call by bitching him out for setting one foot beyond her doorstep, her phone chimed, telling her she had a text. Claire, not much of a texter, frowned in confusion the moment before she read the message:

_Being held hostage by V. Hartley near photo studio in MP building. Betty too. Get cops. Come quick._

Claire gasped so loudly that people across the restaurant turned to stare at her, but she couldn't have cared less. Yoga said, "Fish? What's wrong?"

"Victoria Hartley is holding Daniel and Betty hostage at Meade Publications." The words were almost too horrible to believe, but she did believe it. "We have to call the police. Alert security."

Yoga's strong hand closed over one of hers. "Steady now. We're on it. Let me call the cops, all right? Do that deep breathing thing you tell me about."

"My son is in danger! I can't do deep breathing when – "

"The hell you can't. You're Claire Meade. Last time I checked, you could do anything."

Which was very sweet if not at all realistic. Claire tried to center herself as Yoga called 911; given her history with law enforcement, that was a grand gesture.

"She's always hated Betty, but Daniel – why Daniel?" Claire murmured. Maybe it was just that he was a Meade; maybe Victoria wanted to destroy them all, one by one, and poor Betty had the misfortune of being too close to Daniel at the wrong moment. The motives made no sense, and cruel though Victoria Hartley could be, Claire had never imagined that she could be a murderer.

Then again, she'd never imagined it of herself … and even if the poisoned perfume had driven her over the edge, Claire had still been the one watching Fey Sommers burn to death. It had taken longer than she would ever admit to any other human being. And she had enjoyed it.

If Victoria's madness was half as acute as hers had been back then, then Daniel was in desperate danger. Betty too, and that frightened Claire – but no terror could be greater than that for a child.

"They're on their way," Yoga said. "Who else do we need to call?"

"Building security." Claire took the phone back; for her son, she would get through this. She grabbed a couple hundreds out of her purse and threw them on the table: to hell with the check. "I'll call them myself. You hail the cab."

Claire knew not to rush into the scene herself, but she was going to be as close as possible to her child while he was in danger. Nothing else was even endurable.

**oooooo**

As Claire Meade and her unknown companion (a bit of lez-yay there?) dashed out, they passed the quiet, soft-spoken couple at the table behind them, never turning their heads. The wife sighed and said, "This was supposed to be our special night out."

"I know, honey. I know. And I promise to make it up to you. But when the editor of the world's top fashion magazine gets taken hostage by a Manhattan society doyenne?" The husband ran one hand through his well-combed hair, unconsciously beginning the process of ruffling it back into spikes. "That's when I have to get my Suzuki St. Pierre on."

**oooooo**

Betty pressed her hands against Daniel's back, warm through his T-shirt. He'd run out here and gotten himself in danger – and she'd tried so hard to keep him out of it! – so it was hard to know whether to feel deeply moved at his courage and selflessness or to just kick his ass for being so stupid.

Both, probably. One right after the other. Or at the same time. But right now she had to keep them both alive.

"Mrs. Hartley, why?" Betty said. Though she didn't dare look around Daniel's body, she knew Victoria would be able to hear. "I just want to understand. That's all. Even if you were mad at me for the breakup with Matt – " Which made no sense, given that Matt was the one who had dumped her, but obviously it played a role anyway. "—why would you want to hurt Daniel?"

"You're both so arrogant," Victoria spat. "So self-centered. You try and try to replace my son. All of you."

"Nobody's trying to replace Matt," Daniel said quickly. "He's in Africa these days, right? Doing charity work? That's, like, amazing. I'm not that nice. I'll just own that right now."

"It's not about you!" Victoria shouted. She was getting angrier. That was bad. Betty began to more seriously considering some Tae Kwon Do moves. Yeah, she was only a white belt, but all she'd have to do would be knock Victoria down, right?

But then she replayed Victoria's words in her head, and that was the moment that a switch turned on in Betty's mind and she realized the real motive – and the real target.

Betty said, "You weren't after Daniel before. And you weren't even after me, not until you saw that we were – uh, getting closer."

"Replacing my son," Victoria insisted. Though Betty couldn't see her, she could hear the increasing shakiness of her voice, the edge that brought them closer and closer to danger.

Daniel shifted from foot to foot, obviously as confused as he was uneasy. "But why would you sabotage the helicopter, or follow us to Betty's apartment – "

"She didn't follow us," Betty said. "Daniel, she was already at my building. Because it's also Amanda's building."

"Why would you want to kill Amanda?" Then Daniel gasped. "Oh, my God. You – you were after _Tyler_."

"Don't say his name." Victoria's laugh was a broken thing, almost a sob. "Do you know what it does to a woman, to find out her husband – the father of her child – got some other woman pregnant? Not just some slut, but your worst enemy? And now she keeps parading that other son around – the son that's handsome where your son is ordinary, the son who's devoted to the mother who _abandoned him _while your son you raised every day isn't even speaking to you - the son who's here when your son is far away. He's picked your bitch of a mother over me before. She's tried to replace me. But I stopped her. I won him back."

_Meaning Claire threw Cal out on his ear_, Betty thought, but there was no way she was saying that out loud. This woman was way too close to the edge. Carefully, she went on tiptoe and pressed her lips against Daniel's shoulder blade – the only caress she could manage, the only touch she dared. One of his hands reached backward, and Betty grabbed it, entangling their fingers so tightly it almost hurt. It seemed possible that she would truly never let go.

Victoria continued ranting. "But now Claire wants to replace Matt. And that is never, ever going to happen."

"Nobody wants to replace Matt," Daniel said, more quietly. His thumb made small, nervous circles against Betty's palm. "Cal won't even acknowledge that Tyler's really his."

"I told you – don't say that name." Her voice was ragged now. "It would have been cleaner if you'd all plunged into the water together. No evidence. No proof. But I wasn't afraid to try again. To remove that stain forever. Then I see yet another Meade, slobbering all over a girl Matt inexplicably loved. Taking away something else that rightfully belongs to him."

Betty knew she rightfully belonged to herself and nobody else, plus she and Daniel were still way too far from slobbering all over each other. But this wasn't the time to argue. It was the time to reason. Or, failing that, to stall. The longer they kept Victoria Hartley talking, the longer they had for someone else to interrupt them, or for Victoria to come back to her senses, or just – or just the longer they had to live.

She tried, "You – acted on impulse. You hadn't planned to hurt me or Daniel. That's not really what you wanted."

No reply. Daniel's fingers tightened around hers, like he was saying, _Oh, that's good, keep trying that! _

"You were watching the Meade mansion in hopes you'd see your real target. Following Daniel – that was more of a whim. But you shouldn't get distracted." Betty kept talking, faster and faster, hoping this line of thought made sense to a mind as twisted up as Victoria's seemed to be. "If you're arrested for hurting me and Daniel, you'll never get a chance at Tyler."

Victoria shrieked, "_Don't say that name!_"

**oooooo**

Tyler said, "Do you guys hear that?"

Marc, who was currently curled right next to Cliff – to hold the reflector at the right angle, of course – quickly said, "We're hearing nothing but the music, baby! Keep working it!"

"No, he's right," Cliff said. "Somebody's talking outside. A couple somebodies."

From the corner where Amanda was helping angle a light so that it bounced off Tyler's sculpted cheekbones, she huffed. "So somebody else is sneaking around after hours. Big whoop. Unless they steal my Almond Joys – would they do that?"

Marc wanted to groan. This was the closest he'd been to Cliff in years – legs touching, elbows brushing – and he could breathe in his cologne. Who cared if it was a drugstore brand? Just being so near the one man he'd truly loved – and knowing Cliff didn't mind being near him either – it was easily the best thing that had happened to him in months, and he didn't want it to end.

But there was definitely a ruckus in the hallway.

Tyler sat up, ruining the carefully constructed shot Cliff had arranged – and making Marc's position by his side unnecessary. "They're not just talking out there," Tyler said. "They're arguing."

Sighing, Cliff set down his camera and got to his feet. The long side of Marc's body that had been pressed next to him felt suddenly cold. "We ought to check it out, huh, Marc?"

Being asked for advice – that was a good sign, right? Marc hurriedly scrambled to stand beside Cliff. "Probably so. Better safe than sorry."

"You used to prefer being sorry to safe," Cliff muttered.

_Oh, snap._ But instead of snarking back or changing the subject – which would formerly have been his plans A and B – Marc met Cliff's eyes evenly as he said, voice low, "Not anymore."

Their eyes met, and for a long moment, Marc could feel Cliff's uncertainty as deeply as his own – the longing and the distrust, roped together, one and the same and maybe never to be tangled apart. Could Cliff feel his regret the same way? His desire to try again? It seemed as if he had to. Surely he did.

Then Amanda said, "Let's get these candy-bar robbing jackasses!"

The mood killed, Marc sighed and joined in with the others as they all walked toward the door nearest the elevators. Probably it was nothing – L'amanda having another fight with her latest boyfriend via cell phone headset – and they'd all be back in with the music and lights again within a few minutes. He could get close to Cliff again during the shooting … maybe offer to help clean up afterwards. Amanda and Tyler would probably take off, leaving him and Cliff alone in a great big room with a whole lot of mood lighting. There were possibilities there, right? Oh, the night was still young.

"Hello out there!" Cliff called. "Anything the matter?"

Which seemed like a totally rhetorical question until Tyler opened the door to reveal Daniel and Betty – by the long-withered soul of Anna Wintour, was that Victoria Hartley – _holding a gun_ on them? It couldn't be! It was! "Holy crap," he whispered, unconsciously putting out a hand to pull Cliff back.

Daniel's eyes widened. "Tyler, get out of here!"

"It's you," Victoria hissed, and she turned so that the gun wasn't pointed at Betty and Daniel any longer. Now it was pointed at Tyler, and by extension Marc, Amanda and Cliff too, which was pretty much Marc's personal definition of "from bad to worse."

"What's going on?" Tyler said, obviously too astonished to react quickly.

"What's going on is that all my son's problems are about to be resolved," Victoria said, and she adjusted her hold like a woman on the verge of firing.

Which was when Betty leaped out shouting "Hyah!" or some other kind of martial arts thing, and Victoria stumbled to the side, but the gun was still in her hands and everyone was suddenly screaming and trying to run in about three directions at once. Marc felt like he was surrounded by chaos and terror, which seemed like the worst thing in the world –

-until that chaos was silenced by the deafening blast of a gunshot.

_continued next time - _


	15. Blood and Roses, Part Two

"We interrupt this Fashion TV special "Speidi: The Downfall" to bring you this breaking news! I, Suzuki St. Pierre, have exclusively learned that MODE editor-in-chief and playboy cum laude Daniel Meade, along with some few insignificant little people, is being held hostage _at gunpoint_ in the fashion mag's headquarters – by none other than Manhattan society bigwig and woman scorned Victoria Hartley! Mrs. Hartley is rumored to be armed, dangerous and wearing mismatched separates, though police on the scene have thus far failed to communicate any details of the wardrobes of anyone involved. This crime spree can only be revenge against the House of Meade – perhaps for financier Cal Hartley's rumored affair with Mad Murdering Mama Claire last year? Or maybe this is what just happens when you mix St. John's knits with a Chanel bag! Stay tuned to Fashion TV for the lowdown on the high crimes of the high and mighty!"

Justin turned from the television toward his mother and mouthed _Ohh-Emm-Gee_. In his recliner, Papi looked deeply concerned. "Oh, my God. Daniel's in trouble? _Again_?"

"We keep on saying that," Hilda replied as she went for her phone. If anybody had the skinny on what was happening at MODE, it would be Betty; she still seemed to be in touch with Daniel all the time. It was possible that Betty wouldn't know – she might have been out at her Tae Kwon Leap classes or whatever they were – but then Hilda needed to be the one to break it to her gently. That girl could get more frightened for Daniel than she did for herself.

But Betty didn't answer.

Hilda quickly texted, _Betty, pick up. We got a situation here. _

Still no reply.

That didn't have to mean anything, Hilda knew. Betty might be in one of her classes. On the Q train. In the shower.

Yet a prickle of fear swept up the back of her neck, an instinct she'd learned to trust.

_Along with some few, insignificant little people … _

"Justin," she said, "Let's change the channel."

"Change the channel?" Justin sounded as bewildered as well he might. "This is the biggest thing to happen on Fashion TV since Christina gave birth live during Fashion Week! Besides, it's _Daniel_."

Carefully turning her face so that her father couldn't see it, Hilda repeated, "Change the channel. This is just gonna be a lot of rumors and lies. We'll get the facts from Betty instead of freaking ourselves out watching this." She gave her son a look, willing him to get the picture.

Justin's eyes widened. Thank God, he got it.

On the screen behind him, Suzuki was speaking to a heavyset woman wearing some kind of uniform. "Now, L'amanda, you're sure the skirt didn't match the jacket?"

"I may be a security guard, but I'm a guard at MODE, and that means I know a knockoff when I see one. No way the lapels on that crazy woman were legit." Suzuki shook his head sorrowfully.

"What does Betty say?" Papi asked, as Justin obediently went to the remote and changed it to some cooking show. Food Network was probably the only TV channel that wouldn't be covering this live within ten minutes; good thing her father rarely surfed the internet, because this would light up gossip and news sites worldwide.

"Betty says to hang on. She's busy finding out about Daniel." It was what her sister would say, if she could, so Hilda felt as though it weren't really a lie.

**oooooo**

The air smelled of gunpowder, and Daniel's ears rang so that he could hear nothing else. He stumbled blindly against the wall, grabbed a hand he hoped was Betty's and dragged her the way he'd come. She pushed past him – it _was _Betty, thank God – and seemed to find a doorknob almost before he could see it. Within a split second they were in a small room – a closet? Something like – with the door shut between them and Victoria Hartley's gun.

Once he could hear again, he heard the distant beat of the dance music from Tyler's photo shoot – still playing happily on, like their whole world hadn't just turned upside down.

Daniel wrapped Betty in his arms, clutching her fiercely to his chest. The only illumination was dim emergency lighting showing through the cracks of the door, but it was enough to make out the silhouette of her dark hair against his shoulder, the full curve of her cheek. His entire body shook from adrenalin, and he could feel her trembling too, but it didn't matter. They were together, and they were safe.

Or so it seemed, until he heard Victoria Hartley shout over the beat, "I got you! You can hide, but I know – I got you."

"Blood," Betty whispered. "I saw blood on the floor."

"You're okay?" Daniel spoke as softly as it was possible to, with more breath than voice.

"Yeah. You?"

"Uh-huh." But that meant someone else was hurt. Maybe badly. Maybe fatally.

And Victoria Hartley seemed to think it was his brother.

"I shouldn't have rushed at her like that." Betty's whisper was choked with unshed tears. "I'm only a white belt! It made her fire – "

"She was going to fire anyway. If you hadn't thrown her off, we'd all be dead, okay? So stop beating yourself up about it. You took action. That's the main thing."

"I'm not so sure."

But she rested her head against his shoulder, as if taking comfort, and Daniel felt like maybe he'd gotten through.

A small movement against his leg made them both jump, but then Betty breathed out in relief. "My phone's on vibrate. Whew. My ringtone right now is 'Tik Tok' by Ke$ha and I'm pretty sure that would've given us away."

"Can you tell them to call back later? Jesus."

"I'm going to text them where we are and to get us help." Betty grabbed the phone. "Oh, good, it's Hilda."

That was what his smart side would have told him to do, if he'd been listening. But Daniel thought he was about to listen to his strong side for a while.

His brother was in trouble. And he knew what he had to do.

**oooooo**

"Got you?" Amanda whispered amid the silver veils where she was hiding with Tyler. Thank God for that music; otherwise Victoria would have been able to hear them whispering, moving, maybe even breathing. "You're okay, right?"

"Yeah, except that I want to throw up." Tyler leaned against Amanda's shoulder for a moment, then pulled away, as if he were afraid he were hurting her just by that touch.

Amanda frowned, real fear finally seeping in to replace shock. "Then – who did she get?"

**oooooo**

Marc and Cliff seemed to fall together amid the plaster angels, which camouflaged them with their unfolded wings. At first it was all mostly dizzying and confusing, and Marc was more relieved than frightened until he tried to prop himself up and get some idea of where Victoria Hartley was, the better to improve their hiding place.

But then his arm gave way beneath him, and he realized just running shouldn't make you that dizzy, and then – late, following behind him the way a sonic boom followed a plane at Mach 2 – the pain caught up and slammed into Marc, making him gasp in the effort not to scream.

"Marc!" Cliff's stricken face lowered over his. "Oh, my God."

A glance down at his arm revealed that his once-pristine, snow-gray shirt was now dark red and wet with blood that was probably his. Definitely his.

"I've been shot," Marc murmured. "Which is kind of me being Captain Obvious –"

"No one cares if you're Captain Obvious!" Cliff scrambled to take off his belt, which brought up all kinds of pleasant memories, at least until he wrapped it around Marc's upper arm as a makeshift tourniquet. The pressure somehow made the pain even worse, and he had to bite down on his lower lip to keep from crying out. Cliff whispered, "It's just the arm – "

"Just?_ Just_? Say that when it's your arm!"

"You're bleeding a lot." The whiteness of Cliff's face made Marc realize that Cliff wasn't underestimating this at all. In fact, he looked as if he were even more scared than Marc felt. How much was he bleeding? "Keep still. Please, Marc. You have to keep still."

Marc nodded. It wasn't like he was about to jump up and start Jazzercizing any time soon.

Cliff slipped one arm beneath Marc's head, cradling him close – he could feel the warmth of Cliff's skin against his, feel the pounding of his heart through his palm and elbow. It was almost like being held by Cliff again, the way they used to curl in bed together in the days when Marc hadn't known how good he had it. He knew now. He liked being reminded.

If only he weren't in too much pain to enjoy it.

**oooooo**

Betty's hands shook as she tapped out which floor they were on, the fact that she and Daniel were safe but that someone else had been shot, and of course the key point: _Do NOT let Papi watch this!_

_Of course! I'm not stupid! I'm calling the cops now._

_Call Claire Meade. They'll believe her faster; they'll think you're a nutcase._

_You're lucky you're in danger because otherwise I would take that personally._

_Just do it, OK?_

Betty slipped the phone back in her green fringed purse, which still dangled merrily from her elbow like it didn't know the night had taken a horrible detour. She put her arms back around Daniel, whose face was outlined by the reddish light just outside. "Hilda's calling your mom. The cops will know where we are any second now. All we have to do is hang tight."

"I have to go back out there."

"What?"

"She's after Tyler," Daniel said. The sliver of his face she could make out in the darkness was set, firm. "He might be hurt, so I have to help him. He's my brother. I … I think I didn't get that until now. Not really. But he is."

"Daniel, no!" Betty fought to keep her voice at a whisper; her fingers clutched at the neck of his T-shirt. "Victoria tried to kill you too. She'll do it for sure if she gets the chance."

"Tyler might be bleeding to death out there. I can't just stand here while that's happening to my brother. You wouldn't if it were Hilda, would you?"

Betty knew she wouldn't, but the thought of letting Daniel walk back out into danger was unbearable. At least he wouldn't have to be alone. "We'll both go. I can help you – I don't know, help get him to safety – "

"Betty, no." Daniel's hands gripped her upper arms, an embrace simultaneously painful and necessary. "There's nothing you can do out there. Anyway, two of us are louder than one."

"So you want me to wait here while you go out there? I can't take that."

"You have to," he insisted. "You can make contact with Hilda. My mom. The cops. You should be the one to handle it, and that's definitely our best chance. Which means I have to be the one to go back out there."

"What are you going to do other than make yourself another target?"

"I know this place backwards and forwards, Betty. Come on. One of my first memories is playing hide and seek with Alex in this building!"

"This is _not _a game of hide and seek!"

"Don't you think I know that? At any rate, I've got an advantage." Daniel kept speaking evenly, though she could hear the edge of fright beneath it all. That was what convinced her he was talking sense: He didn't think he was invulnerable. He knew just how dangerous this was. But he felt he had to do it anyway. "I'm going to be careful. I won't be any worse off than the others out there. So I'm not taking any chances they aren't taking."

Why did Daniel have to pick now to get logical?

They stared at each other for a long moment, their faces close in the dark, shadow on shadow. She knew Daniel's face more by memory and understanding than by sight – the desperation in his eyes, the tension in his long face, the tenderness as his arms folded around hers.

"Say you'll stay in this closet," he whispered. "You'll stay safe until the cops get here. Promise me."

Stubbornly, Betty insisted, "Or until I find another way to help." Not that she could imagine what the hell that would be.

"Trust me, if you think of something else to try, I one hundred percent want to hear it. Until then, you stay safe." Daniel's voice sounded equal parts loving and exasperated. "Okay?"

Betty couldn't say yes. She couldn't give words to any agreement about Daniel going back out into lethal danger while she remained protected. But she knew what he said made sense, for all of them, and so she nodded.

"Okay," he breathed, as his face dipped nearer to hers. Her heartbeat pounded so that it nearly drowned out his voice. Betty turned her mouth up to his as their lips met in their first kiss.

The touch, tentative at first, deepened within an instant – Daniel's mouth opening hers, searching hers, as they pulled each other closer. She slid her palms along his back to his waist to press them together, wanting to touch him in every way they could touch during this one irreplaceable moment. His hands slid up her back to frame her face to hold her there as they kissed each other desperately, knowing it might be the only time.

Everything slammed into her at once – the intensity of the kiss, the depth of her feelings for him, the danger of their situation, the fact that this was _Daniel_, her Daniel, the best friend she'd ever had and now perhaps the man she'd wanted more than any other. Betty thought she had never understood how much she cared for him before now, when they breathed in and out together, drank the taste of each other, and she knew how much it would truly hurt to lose him forever.

When their lips parted, neither of them could speak. Daniel leaned his forehead against hers for a long moment; his breaths came as fast and shallow as hers.

Finally he whispered, "We're gonna do that again."

"If we don't, I will follow you to the afterlife and kick your ass."

She felt his smile against her cheek. "Betty – "

"Tell me later," she murmured. "See? You have to come back and tell me later."

"I will. I promise."

"You better."

Amid the shadows, their eyes met for one agonizing moment. Then Daniel let go of her – a separation as shocking and painful as anything else that had happened that night – and put his hand on the doorknob.

Betty shrank back further into the closet; as much as it hurt to watch him leave, she knew she had to do it. For a long moment, Daniel stood at the door, listening for Victoria Hartley over the still-thumping music. Apparently he heard nothing, because he opened the door and darted out into the hallway, careful to shut Betty in safe behind him.

When the darkness folded around her again, Betty closed her eyes tightly to hold back the tears.

**oooooo**

"You're sure about this?" the police sergeant asked.

"I'm positive!" Claire held up her phone, complete with Hilda's message. "This comes straight from – my son's former assistant's sister in Queens." The sergeant gave her a look, which Claire decided to ignore. "If that's where Betty says they are, that's where they are. Get up there!"

Apparently they were willing to take her word for it; at any rate, the SWAT team began to move. Claire sagged against Yoga's shoulder, grateful to know that her son was alive (for the moment), that they had a plan of action (for what it was worth), that Betty and Daniel were apparently at least friends again (despite Daniel blowing the romance she'd hoped for), that at least they were doing _something_ –

"Claire!"

Slowly she turned to see Cal Hartley striding toward her, parting the crowds of police and other security personnel as though he were Moses and they were the Red Sea. It was so inevitable that he was here – this was his wife, after all – and yet he was the last person she'd wanted to see.

_I can't believe I ever loved him_, Claire thought, and even as the words formed in her mind she finally understood that she never had. She had loved an idea of Cal – a fantasy – that had nothing to do with the real man.

"What's going on?" Cal demanded.

"Your wife is holding my son hostage," Claire said, gripping Yoga's hand tightly for borrowed strength. "At least one other person as well. And she's got a gun. Do you need any more details than that?"

She'd expected him to snap at her, to say something snide or cover his own ass. Instead, Cal sagged against the nearest police car. The pulsing blue and red lights around them highlighted the wrinkles in his face, all the years between then and now. "Christ," he said, and his voice was broken. "Jesus Christ."

"Cal?"

"Don't you dare judge me," he said. His voice was like the crunching of gravel or the cracking of stone. "This woman – this woman I loved, and had a son with, and made a life with – I had to confess another child to her, and watch her break from the inside out, and know it's my fault – had to deny him just to have some hope of keeping her stable –"

Claire was long past the point of being able to feel sorry for either Calvin or Victoria Hartley. But in this moment she could see him as a man and not a monster, see her as more victim than vicious. "She needed medication, Cal. Or a therapist. Or both. Maybe institutionalization."

"You think I don't know that? You think I didn't try?"

"I don't think about you as much as you wish I did," Claire snapped. "All I know is that Daniel's in danger. His friend Betty, too. If Victoria's sick, then it's not her fault. As far as I'm concerned, it's yours."

Cal's piercing eyes met hers, anger as powerful between them as passion had ever been. "It's _ours_, and you know it."

She did.

"Don't listen to him, Fish," Yoga said. Claire was ashamed to realize she'd nearly forgotten Yoga was there … Yoga, who had stood by her and been loyal, whereas Cal had betrayed her every time. Yoga, who had repeatedly risked her own freedom to get whatever it was Claire needed, while Cal had always taken what he needed and never asked whether Claire wanted anything at all. As she glanced over at Yoga, Claire felt weirdly as if she'd never seen this woman before, not in any true light – but she did now. "This is Victoria Hartley's fault, and nobody else's. So y'all chill, all right?"

"All right," Claire said slowly. She wrapped her hand around Yoga's, not caring if Cal saw, or Suzuki St. Pierre, or the whole world.

**oooooo**

Being brave for Betty's sake was easier than being brave for his own, Daniel realized. While he'd been holding Betty, insisting he would be all right, he'd felt steady and sure. Now that he was inching along the hallway corridor toward the photo studio, attempting to fold his body like origami in order to fit in the deepest shadows, he felt like he was in imminent danger of barfing. Which would kind of give him away. So he held on to it.

Finally he wedged himself into a corner that would allow him to see inside the studio. He'd never understood just how surreal a photo studio looked before. Lights shone brightly on a pile of packing crates, but the rest of the large room was filled with weird objects, which cast even weirder shadows. Daniel couldn't see Tyler, or any of the others for that matter, but he could see Victoria Hartley.

She stood almost in the center of the room. Her high heels had tracked something in on the floor – blood, he realized with a shock. A lot of it. Crap.

"Come out, Tyler," she crooned. "You know you don't belong here. You know you have no reason to exist. Come out and I'll let the others go. Except Daniel and Betty, of course. But your other friends don't matter. Don't you want them to be safe? Come on out. Or else I swear I'll finish you all."

_Don't do it, Tyler! _Daniel thought. Which normally he wouldn't have had any concerns about, because Victoria's offer was not exactly the most inviting in the world. But there was something about the darkness in his brother's eyes sometimes – the hollow expression he'd worn when he left rehab, the fact that he'd come so close to hurting Mom – and Daniel knew that Victoria's cutting words had sliced down to the bone.

_You know you don't belong here. _

**oooooo**

Amid the shifting silvery veils, Amanda gripped Tyler's hands in her own. "You belong here," she whispered. "You belong with me."

"It has to be more than that," he murmured.

"What are you talking about? _I _am reason enough for_ anyone _to live!" She nearly stamped her foot to emphasize her point before remembering that was a truly bad idea with a crazed gunwoman just a few feet away.

Tyler just shook his head absently. "Who the hell are these people? How am I a part of them? How are they a part of me? I just – I can't – "

"Hey!"

Amanda managed, somehow, not to scream or gasp out loud as another voice came from around their feet – Tyler went white but didn't faint. Panic turned to relief as she looked down and saw Daniel on his hands and knees, half-draped in one of the silvery veils.

"What are you doing down there?" Tyler said over the thumping dance beat.

"Playing hide and seek," Daniel said.

"So not the time, Daniel!" Amanda huffed.

He didn't seem to hear her, though; he got to his feet and motioned toward the far corner. "There's an emergency staircase back that way. Looks like the drapes cover it, and she won't hear the hinges over that music."

Something happened to Tyler's face then – something that made him look much younger, and somehow happier, even though he was clearly, like the rest of them, still scared shitless. "You came back out here for me?"

"Yeah. You're the only brother I've got."

The moment sort of shone between them, but Amanda had to ask: "Alexis doesn't count?"

Shaking his head, Daniel said, "Once she pees sitting down, she's your sister. End of story. Come on. We'll get you guys out of here and I'll head back for Betty. The others, if I can find them."

Amanda said, "Did Betty die? Because I hope not." She hadn't actually thought about it a whole lot before that moment, but Betty dying would be really sad, even if she did inherit the apartment. But surely Daniel wouldn't go back to collect a corpse. You could always get that later.

"She's fine. You're fine. Which means – "

All that blood on the floor came from somewhere. From someone. Cliff or –

Amanda covered her mouth with her hands to hold in the scream.

**oooooo**

"My whole life is flashing before my eyes," Marc whispered drowsily. "My God, I've always been so – well-dressed."

Cliff hissed, "Will you shut up about your life flashing in front of you? You're gonna be fine!"

"Not a fashion mistake in the bunch. Like – like a slideshow of – Jackie Onassis." The plum skinny jeans. The checked waistcoat. His crushed red velvet jacket for Hilda's wedding. A man could die with pride, thinking back on a track record like that.

Really, he didn't have too many regrets, Marc decided … aside from getting shot in the first place, which was definitely going in the "Whoops" column of life. Though he wished he weren't estranged from his mother, he was proud of having come out to her and told her the truth, and besides, at least he hadn't wasted any more time listening to the tales of Lady Buttons of Camelot.

The one thing he hated most – the one thing he would choose above all others to do over if he had the chance – well, maybe he still had the chance.

With his good arm, Marc reached up to touch Cliff's shoulder. "Just so you know, Cliff – you were the best –"

"Don't even," Cliff whispered, startlingly forceful. "You even try to pull any 'deathbed confessions,' and I swear to God, I'll finish you off myself. You're going to be fine, Marc. The end. We're not even pretending any different."

That was – not how Marc had wanted that to go, but hey, at least Cliff was thinking positive, right?

Somebody needed to, because it was getting more difficult on Marc's end. His arm had kept turning up the volume on the pain, all the way to eleven, until a couple minutes ago, when it had gone cold and numb. He didn't know how the absence of that kind of pain could be worse, but it was. Marc felt as though … as though his arm had died ahead of the rest of him.

Everything seemed to be too far away, and he remained as dizzy as if he'd just climbed off a Tilt-A-Whirl at Coney Island, and the back-and-forth click-clack of Victoria Hartley's heels – her crazy, pointless pacing – just scared him worse every second, like there were whole new dimensions of scared undiscovered by science until now. The plaster angel overhead was reminding him way too much of a gravestone. Nausea racked his body, and the hot blood covering his shirt and pooling beneath his back seemed like more than he could spare.

The situation couldn't get any worse.

Until suddenly, the music stopped.

"Should've shut that stupid thing off minutes ago," Victoria said, her voice creepily childlike. "Now I can hear you all. I can find you now."

Cliff lowered himself over Marc, literally doing the human shield thing. Which was stupid and futile and pretty much the most amazing thing anybody had done for him ever.

He still wished Cliff had let him say what he'd wanted to say, but now Marc knew it wasn't necessary.

Cliff understood. He always had.

**oooooo**

Betty's heart pounded so fast in her chest that it felt as if it would hammer through her ribs and break them.

_Without the music, Victoria will be able to hear every footstep. Every breath. She'll hunt them down and kill them one by one. Me being in this closer just means she'll kill me last. _

_I'll have to hear her shoot Daniel –_

The thought was unbearable.

It had been bad enough during the few hours last month when she'd thought Daniel might have drowned in the Hudson River. Now, though – now that she really understood her feeling for him, his feelings for her – now that she'd kissed him – Betty comprehended more fully than ever before everything that he was to her. The first person outside her family who had believed in her, seen something special in her and given her a chance. The boss who had taught her how to get by in the working world and allowed her every mistake, every preference, to increase her odds of success. The best friend who had consoled her after breakups, helped her family out in times of trouble and celebrated with her when things were good. The guy she was falling for. The guy she desired.

The man she –

Betty couldn't think it. Not now, when she could lose him so easily. She willed herself to somehow forget all that – to imagine herself as the chipper, poncho-clad girl who had walked in here four years ago only wanting to help. How best could she help? That was what she had to focus on.

She went for her phone, intending to text Hilda or Claire that the situation had become more dire and the SWAT team might consider dropping in any time now … but then it vibrated in her hand. Someone else was calling, or texting – swear to God, if Christina was drunk-dialing her again after a night out with Stuart –

But then Betty read the name beside the number, and her eyes went wide.

**oooooo**

"Well, well, well," Victoria said as she stepped closer to the wall of veils. Daniel felt Amanda grab one hand, and he reached out to Tyler with the other. They were all standing in a ring now, waiting for the inevitable. "Are these – shadows I see?"

_Damn it_, Daniel thought. _Betty was right about me staying in there with her. Remember that thing I realized earlier, where Betty was always right? How do I keep forgetting this? _

Then his eyes met his brother's and he knew walking out here hadn't been for nothing.

Suicidal, unfortunately, but not for nothing.

Victoria's heels clicked against the cement floor, and goosebumps rose on Daniel's flesh as he heard her cock the pistol. "I can see you now, I think. One of you. I'll see which after you fall to the floor."

Daniel tightened his grip around Tyler's and Amanda's, holding his breath, unable to do anything else –

-until he heard Betty from the far side of the room. "Excuse me. Mrs. Hartley? There's a phone call for you."

_Betty! No!_ Daniel nearly started forward, the better to distract Victoria from firing at Betty in the final 1.3 seconds of his life, but Tyler held him back.

Quickly – apparently before Victoria could re-aim – Betty added, "It's Matt. Your son."

"Matt?" Victoria whispered.

"_Mom_?" Matt's voice was faint; Betty probably had the volume up to maximum, but she still stood some distance away … wisely, in Daniel's opinion. "_Listen to me, okay? You don't have to do this_."

"I thought you were still in Africa – "

"_I am. I got up this morning, and it was my turn to use the community computer, and the first website I loaded was covering this. There's a lot of news media outside, and the police are headed up even now. So you need to stop, Mom. When the police get there, they need to find you sitting down and calm. Give the gun to Betty_."

Daniel dared to lean forward so that only one of the veils shielded him from Victoria's sight – and it was so translucent that he knew she would be able to see him through it if she looked. However, her eyes were fixed on Betty (standing in the doorway, that blue dress brilliant even through the silver veil), or to be more precise, on the cell phone she held out in one hand.

Victoria's voice cracked as she said, "You don't understand. They're all trying to replace you."

After a pause, Matt said, "_You mean Tyler_."

"Your father swore he wouldn't tell you!" Victoria shrieked, an expression of rage so violent that Betty stumbled backward and Daniel wanted to dash out and help her. But Victoria remained focused on the conversation. "He promised me. He_ promised_."

"_I needed to know, Mom! And it's okay. Tyler doesn't replace me. He's my brother. I mean – I always wanted a brother. Is he there? Can I talk to him_?"

Since talking to Matt would mean giving himself away, Daniel turned to Tyler and shook his head. But Tyler didn't listen. He stepped out, immediately, which was scary as all hell – but Victoria still didn't fire. Tyler said, "Hi. It's me. Tyler, I mean."

"_Hi. Sorry we're meeting like this_."

"It's okay," Tyler said, obviously glancing nervously at Victoria but edging closer. "I mean, it's not okay, but – good to get to know you."

Matt continued, "_See, Mom? We're all going to be good here. Just give Betty the gun, or Tyler. Somebody. Sit down and stay calm_."

Victoria didn't give anybody the gun, but she took a few steps backward and sat down in a nearby chair, over by the angels. Her hands fell to her sides, the gun now loose in her grip. She looked older now – like a decade had settled over her since the night began.

After a moment, Matt said, "_Um, Mom_?"

"I think she's okay now," Betty said. "Matt, seriously, thank you."

"_No thanks necessary. Just glad you answered the phone even though it was me on the line_."

A corner of Betty's mouth lifted; obviously she was still kind of fond of Matt, which was annoying but seriously no big deal compared to the fact that it looked like they were all going to live.

Shakily, Daniel stepped out of his hiding place as well, Amanda just behind. His eyes met Betty's, and she smiled weakly at him. Relief began to sink in as he realized they'd walk out of here together, hand in hand.

Cliff's head popped up amid the angels then, and he didn't look relieved at all. "We need a doctor, like, now."

"Oh, my God – Marc!" Amanda dashed toward the angels; when Daniel followed, he gasped to see Marc sprawled on the floor, gory with blood and apparently not entirely conscious any longer. With a grimace, Amanda whirled back toward Victoria and cried, "You broke him!"

"_Mom, let them call a doctor, okay? They need to call a doctor now_." Matt's voice had become more urgent. He'd called not only to save them, Daniel realized, but also to save his mother from her own actions. After his own mother's murder trial, he knew just how that felt. For a moment, he was almost sorry he'd ever hit Matt.

Well, no, not entirely sorry, because the guy was being a dick to Betty at the time, but a little bit.

"I've ruined everything," Victoria moaned. "They'll put me in a clinic now. Not one of the good ones, with Botox. One of the ones with padded walls."

Betty stepped closer. "It's going to be all right. You'll see."

"No, it won't." Victoria lifted the gun, and this time she pointed it at her own head.

"Mrs. Hartley, no!" Betty lunged forward even faster than Daniel could, knocking Victoria's gun arm backwards before the blast. The bullet only hit one of the tallest angels, sending plaster dust snowing down through the room – and the angel toppling over, falling like a cut tree toward Betty and Victoria, smashing down on them both.

Daniel scrambled over the debris toward Betty. She lay on the floor, blood welling from a cut on her temple, completely unconscious. Next to her, Victoria groaned weakly; the gun, thank God, now lay halfway across the floor.

"Betty?" Daniel whispered, putting his hand to her cheek. She couldn't be hurt or – no, it was impossible. Not now that the danger was supposed to be over –

-and then suddenly there were about ten guys in black with rifles in the room, all of them shouting at once, and Daniel realized the SWAT team had arrived.

"About time!" Amanda shouted.

**oooooo**

Nobody had given Claire any firm updates, but she could tell something radical had changed. The urgency had flowed out of the police personnel – while medical teams were now rushing inside the building. She tightened her fingers around Yoga's and wished she were still the sort of woman who could pray.

A few steps away, Cal said, "It's over. One way or another, it's over."

He probably needed comfort as badly as she did, or worse, but he would have to find it someplace else.

The crowds of paparazzi, farther back behind the police barricades, began murmuring and cameras started flashing as a figure in jeans and a white shirt emerged from the building. Claire gasped, fear and relief arriving together as she saw the son she hadn't known was in danger – safe and sound. "Tyler!"

Tyler ran toward her – toward Cal too, who stood so close – and yet he dashed right by his father to wrap Claire in his arms.

"What were you doing in there?" she cried, hugging him tightly.

"A photo shoot," he said, as if that made any sense. "I'm okay. Daniel too, and Amanda, and Cliff – "

"_All_ of you were in there? Christ, were you throwing a hostage party?"

Tyler ignored this. "Betty got hit on the head – Mrs. Hartley too – but they're okay, I think. But Marc got shot."

"The SWAT team got you out of there?"

"Yeah, but actually it was Matt who saved us. He called on Betty's phone." Tyler's smile was crooked. "And Daniel risked his neck trying to get me out of there. Turns out I have _two_ brothers who love me."

Claire touched his face, filled with the same tenderness she'd felt for an infant she'd held only once, too briefly.

The knowledge that Matt had come to Tyler's rescue might make Cal proud, or might only cause him further chagrin. Claire couldn't guess which. When she peered past Tyler's shoulder – willing, now, to acknowledge Cal for the sake of his sons – she realized he had already walked away. From Tyler, from her, from any sense of shame or responsibility.

"Took out like he was on fire or something," Yoga muttered. "Probably checking on his wife. You want me to find him."

"No," Claire replied. "We're fine as we are."

**oooooo**

Getting a transfusion was a total mood-lifter, Marc decided. Even better? Morphine! That gunshot wound felt about a zillion miles away, and he couldn't wipe the grin off his face.

"You look stoned," the nurse said at one point. "That dosage will do the trick, I guess."

"Not stoned," Marc replied airily. "Just in love."

Maybe it was too early to say that? It wasn't like he and Cliff were even back together yet, for real. But as far as he was concerned, a near-death crisis counted as at least a date and a half. Particularly when the guy of your dreams actually sheltered you from harm.

"Hey," said the aforementioned dream guy from the doorway where he stood. When had Marc been moved into a private room? Maybe he was just a tad stoned. "You look a lot better."

"In this old thing?" Marc plucked at the hospital gown with his good hand. "Please. Aqua green is so not my color."

"Well, neither is pasty white, which is the shade you were turning before we got you in here."

"I suppose an Elizabethan pallor doesn't suit me. Too bad; it's so chic. You, on the other hand – you look amazing."

Cliff ran one hand self-consciously through his disheveled hair. "Please tell me 'hostage' is not my ideal look. Because I hope never to wear it again."

"Less hostage. More hero."

"I didn't do anything," Cliff said, staring at the hospital floor.

"I think we both know that's not true." Marc held out his hand, a silent plea for Cliff to touch him. "Listen – the confession's not deathbed anymore – "

"Not now, okay? I just – can't."

That was disappointing, but Marc figured a room with linoleum flooring, fluorescent lighting and paper sheets wasn't exactly the most romantic setting in the world. Better to wait for another date. For candlelight and music or at least no gun-toting maniacs, IV lines and flop sweat. "All right."

In a low tone, Cliff said, "I'm really glad you're going to be okay."

"Makes two of us. Jesus. I was kissing my Calvin Klein boxer briefs goodbye for a minute there." That won him a small smile, and Marc took heart. "Even Wilhelmina would give me time off for this, I figure. But – see you around the magazine. In a week. Two if I can milk her for that much."

Cliff actually grinned at that. "Two weeks? That might be pushing Wilhelmina a little far."

"Worth a shot." Then Marc grimaced. "Ouch, bad pun."

"Accidental bad puns are the best kind." After a pause, Cliff said, more gently, "Good night, Marc."

"Good night," he answered, inwardly swearing that the next time he said those words to Cliff, it would be while they fell asleep together.

**oooooo**

Meanwhile, in the ER, Daniel stood between Hilda and Justin as Betty's doctor explained the results of her scans; it looked as if the blow to her head hadn't caused any internal bleeding, aside from a nasty bruise she'd have the next day. She would wake up any moment with a severe headache, and would need monitoring for her concussion in the hospital overnight, but she would recover.

"Thank Jesus," Hilda said, paying one hand over her leopard-spandex-covered cleavage. "Between the two of you and Papi, I have been spending way too much time scared outta my gourd lately."

"Sorry about that," Daniel said. "Hopefully we're all going to stay out of trouble for a while."

"Now that we know Aunt Betty's okay, can we check on Marc?" Justin still looked concerned. "My gay mentor lacks family support, and besides, if he's been scarred, he's going to take that hard."

"We ought to run up and see him," Hilda agreed, "but we're not leaving your aunt just lying here."

Daniel said, "I'll stay with Betty. I promise. If she wakes up, I'll call you as soon as possible."

Hilda's wide grin had rarely looked happier. "You used to be the best boss ever. Now you're definitely the best ex-boss ever."

By now Daniel figured he was more than that – but if Betty hadn't shared their changing relationship with her sister yet, he knew he should save that news for her. "Well, I try."

She kissed him quickly on the cheek. "I'll be back right away, all right?"

Justin interjected, "I, on the other hand, will be talking gossip-worthy details with Marc until the painkillers knock him out."

It felt good to grin again. "Sounds like a plan."

Then they were gone, and Daniel was alone with Betty once more. He'd needed a moment like this to really believe the good news – that she wasn't seriously harmed, and that they'd gotten out of that horrible situation in one piece.

Victoria Hartley, on the other hand – he'd overheard a couple of the doctors discussing her transfer to the psych ward.

But Victoria Hartley didn't matter any longer. He wrapped his hand around Betty's, grateful to touch her again. Her glasses were folded in the pocket of his T-shirt, where he'd collected them from amid the remnants of the plaster angel; this meant he could look down at her face and imagine that she was simply peacefully asleep. It took considerable willpower not to kiss her again – but the next time their lips touched, Daniel wanted Betty to relish the moment as much as he would.

As if she could hear his thoughts, Betty frowned slightly, then moved her head to one side. And the other. Her eyelids fluttered, and Daniel caressed her hand as Betty whispered, "Where – where am I?"

"The hospital. You're all right. You just got hit in the head."

"Daniel?" Betty blinked up at him, frowning in apparent consternation. "What happened?"

"The plaster angel fell on you in the photo studio. Remember?" The doctor had said she might be slightly confused upon awakening, or might even have forgotten the entire hostage incident; it wasn't an unusual reaction to trauma, apparently.

"And_ you_ brought me here?" She sounded more bewildered than he would have thought. "I don't remember – oh, ow, that hurts."

Daniel patted her hand. "It's okay. Take it easy. Hilda and Justin are just down the hall. See, we're all taking care of you."

"Hilda – you mean, my sister? My nephew?"

Something about the way Betty stared at him suggested that she knew precisely who those people were (which was a relief, because otherwise Daniel would have started yelling for the doctors right away), but that she didn't understand how he knew who they were.

Slowly, Daniel said, "Betty, what's the last thing you remember?"

"Shining your shoes."

"Huh?" He ever hadn't asked Betty to do anything that menial. Or – wait – he had. Once. Only once. Realization dawning, Daniel said, "Uh, Betty, you got hit on the head, so I need to ask – what's the date?"

"October 3, 2006," she said instantly, naming a date almost four years in the past – and only a week after they'd started working together. "Why?"

Daniel swallowed hard and tried to smile. "No reason."

THE END

_Next time on "Ugly Betty Season Five: New York, New York" – "You Must Remember This." _

_(Songs: "The Chaconne," Dessa; "Amazed and Afraid," Bill Quateman; "Magic," Ladyhawke) _


	16. You Must Remember This, Part One

_Wait – where are my braces?_

Betty sat upright on the hospital bed, then winced as her temples pounded with a crushing headache. Apparently Daniel Meade had been telling the truth about something hitting her very hard at MODE; this job was the gift that kept on giving –

_Don't think that way. You're getting your foot in the door. Everybody has to start somewhere, right? You'll be just great! … eventually. _

"Take it easy," the nurse said, handing her a small paper cup containing two Tylenol; apparently the paper-cup service was what made the Tylenol worth $8 apiece. Betty, who had been forced to scrutinize every line of her father's medical bills, knew to the penny how much her care was costing. But this would be workman's comp, wouldn't it? "You need to go slow."

"I've been in this hospital room for more than a day," Betty insisted. "How much slower can I go? I feel lots better; I promise. And hey, did you guys remove my braces?"

The nurse hesitated before answering her question; people seemed to be doing that a lot. "Some head injuries might, ah, require the removal of braces to … hmm. To properly examine the jaw."

"Huh." Betty ran her tongue over her teeth. They felt – pretty good, actually. Maybe Dr. Farkus would say she didn't even need to put the braces back on.

Despite this accident at MODE – and the fact that she was stuck at a fashion magazine – and her new boss' endless, picayune demands – and Walter's faithlessness – yes, despite all that, there was reason to have hope. To take courage.

So why did Hilda keep looking at her like she was going to shatter at any second?

Well, older sisters could be overprotective sometimes.

**oooooo**

"If she doesn't snap outta this soon, I swear, I'm gonna hit her in the head again and see if that puts things back where they belong!" Hilda said, gesturing toward Daniel's forehead as if he would provide the trial run. He scooted back in his chair. "She asked me if I've seen Gina Gambarro around with Walter. She wants to know if it's too early to volunteer for Hillary Clinton's presidential campaign. She doesn't know who Lady Gaga is. It's just not right seeing her like this!"

Daniel knew Hilda was being dramatic for effect, but he suspected he was even more frustrated than she was. "How long is this going to last? Another day? Two?"

The doctor – his last name was pronounced Spah-cheh-men, but spelled Spaceman, which was weird – cocked his head to one side, considering. "You never can tell. Why, back in the '70s, I was hit in the head with some debris from Skylab. Still have no idea where South America is to this day!"

Hilda and Daniel traded glances, a sort of duel of silent freaking out. It was Hilda who managed to speak first. "You mean – you think Betty might never get her memory back?"

The thought of losing all that time … losing the incredible relationship he and Betty had built during the past four years, made Daniel feel slightly sick inside. He hadn't cared about a couple days' short delay before they could be together. Then her amnesia covered the entire weekend, and he'd killed time by remembering that one amazing kiss they'd shared and resolving to relive it over and over and over, as soon as possible. It had never occurred to him that he really might lose what he and Betty shared for good.

But Dr. Spaceman chuckled and shook his head. "Highly unlikely. She's already healed from the head injury, except for that gash we had to stitch shut. And the headaches. Other than that, fine! And perhaps she'll never remember the whole hostage incident, which cuts down on her chances of selling the story to TMZ, am I right? At this point, however, Betty's amnesia is probably more psychological than physiological in origin."

"What does that mean?" Daniel demanded.

"Well, psychological means, you know, the ol' noggin, bats in the belfry, crazytown!" Dr. Spaceman made a little whirly gesture beside his head. "Physiological means something from hard science. I try not to worry about such things."

Daniel was fast becoming more worried about the doctor than the patient, but he doggedly kept on. "There have been tons of things she should have noticed already – like the change in her hair, the fact that the two of us both look a little older – "

"Speak for yourself," Hilda muttered.

Plowing ahead, Daniel continued, "Betty should have realized something's not right by now, but she hasn't. Does that mean she's not … allowing herself to remember?"

"Precisely. Her situation was too overwhelming, so she just checked out. Erased a period of time she found it difficult to remember. Haven't we all done that once in a while?" Dr. Spaceman grinned the vacant grin of someone who had checked out a long time ago. "When Betty feels safer and more secure again, and allows herself to believe that the danger is truly over, she'll remember everything. So if you owe her any money, don't assume you won't have to pay up."

Hilda brightened. "So all we've gotta do is make Betty feel safe. Just – get her home? Fix her some of her favorite foods, something like that?"

Dr. Spaceman nodded. "And no matter what, don't let on that it's actually 2010. Play along with the illusion. Allow her to enjoy her little vacation in the past. Odds are, she'll be back to normal within another day or two. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to test some of the new tranquilizers we just got in. Supposed to be some straight-up dope in there."

As he walked out, Hilda said, "I think we had a straight-up dope in here."

"I don't think he's wrong, though," Daniel said. The more he thought about it, the more sense it made. Betty had been in fear for her life, and for his, not to mention her friends. She'd been the one to stop Victoria Hartley from committing suicide. That was a huge amount of stress – and coming just after her new job and her father's heart attack, no wonder she'd freaked out. By comparison, her early days at MODE must have seemed like a much simpler time. "We'll play along for a couple of days. Let Betty work this out in her own way."

"How are we supposed to do that?"

"Well, she's still got her room at the Queens house, right?" With Little Mermaid sheets and everything. Daniel felt his enthusiasm building. _Go back to the beginning_, he thought._ We'll go back to the start of it all. _"Bobby can stay at his place for a while."

"And Justin? Can he miraculously shrink six inches?"

"Oh. Right. Well, maybe Justin can – stay out of sight?"

Hilda folded her arms; her dangling pink earrings swayed as she shook her head. "I'm telling you now, no way we can pull this off."

"Remember what Dr. Spaceman said. She's helping fool herself," Daniel continued. "Any little differences, she'll gloss right over. I can let her come back to MODE – she's already got time off for her injury at the NYRB, right?"

"Yeah – " She gave him a look. "You're all into this, aren't you?"

He sighed. "Betty and I didn't exactly get off on the right foot, way back when."

"I remember."

That horrible photo shoot: The same of it burned in his memory. "I know she's forgiven me, but – I've always kind of wanted a do-over, you know?" Shrugging sheepishly, Daniel said, "Now I have a chance to get that, and help Betty at the same time. So why not?"

Hands to the sky, as if surrendering all responsibility to the Lord, Hilda said, "It's completely crazy, but what the hell. We've gotta do something, right?"

"Right." Daniel grinned, then caught a glimpse of the medical diploma behind Hilda's head. His smile faded. "Does that say he's a graduate of the Copacabana School of the Medical Arts?"

"If she's not all better in 48 hours, we are so getting a second opinion!"

**oooooo**

Ignacio hadn't fixed breakfast for his family in almost two months now. For one, he was a lot slower going up and down the stairs than he used to be, and for two, he had to eat rabbit food these days. Fiber cereals. Skim milk. Melon. What kind of breakfast was that? So he indifferently ate whatever he was supposed to whenever he was able to bring himself to do it, or when Elena insisted, whichever came first.

But now Elena was staying with her sister out in Yonkers, and his Beatriz was home again for a while, and she couldn't know anything was wrong. And that meant he needed to make breakfast just like the old days.

"Papi, don't!" Hilda tried to snatch the Bisquick from his hands. "You can't overdo it!"

"Pancakes aren't overdoing it. You stir. You pour. That's it! I promise, I won't flip them."

Hilda said, "You know you're not supposed to eat anything like that."

Sighing, Ignacio said, "It's for Betty, all right? And for you if you stop fussing."

Although she looked unconvinced, Hilda took a seat at the table. These days, when she stayed over during the week with Bobby, she often came down in pajamas and a robe; her new husband liked things casual. Or maybe she was just trying to match her old man – he rarely wore anything besides pajamas and a robe these days either. Now, though, his Hilda had on something shiny and green. Hair done. Nails about an inch longer than they'd been over the weekend: That girl was an artist with acrylics.

For his part, he'd pulled out one of his favorite shirts and some comfy slacks. They hung looser than they used to – and it was frightening to realize how much weight he'd lost – but it felt kind of good to be dressed nicely again.

Justin appeared, earning a gasp of disapproval from Hilda. "What the hell are you doing here? You know she can't see you!"

"Man does not live by cafeteria food alone," Justin insisted, grabbing a packet of Pop Tarts from the counter. "If we have to avoid Aunt Betty seeing me at all costs, does this mean I can stay over at Austin's house tonight?"

"No, it most certainly does not," Hilda snapped. "Reminder: Betty's the one that got hit in the head. Not me."

Footsteps on the stairs made them all straighten. Justin rushed for the back door, calling out in an exaggerated high voice, "Have a good day at MODE, Aunt Betty!"

"Oh, Justin – is he gone already?" Betty frowned as she walked into the kitchen. "I really wanted to talk to him about the magazine."

Papi shrugged. "Kids these days."

Betty sat down at the table, blissfully unaware that he needed any extra coddling or looking after. What a relief that was! To be able to do something simple, like stirring pancake batter, without having everyone hovering overhead every single second. Ignacio returned to his task with relish.

Hilda stared at her sister. "That outfit is – not your usual."

"What?" Betty looked down at her clothing – a yellow dress with multicolored polka dots, a broad purple belt with heels to match, golf socks with little pompoms on the back, and a lime green sweater vest to top it off. "I wore this last week."

"How could I forget?" Hilda said, then put her hand over her mouth, like that was tactless to say in front of an amnesia victim. Probably it was, but hey, if it didn't bother Betty – and it couldn't – Ignacio didn't see the point in being upset either.

These had been happy times for his family, in their way. Happier times for him than he'd appreciated when they were happening. This go-round, Ignacio decided, he was going to enjoy every second.

And he thought he could flip a pancake before Hilda caught him.

**oooooo**

"Excuse me," Amanda said, grabbing the new receptionist's chair and shoving her to the side. "_Real_ talent, back in the house."

"Take the week off, full pay," Daniel said to the receptionist, with a smile that hopefully would smooth things over and avoid any lawsuits for whiplash. "Okay, Amanda, remember what we went over?"

"Don't mention President Obama, my sizzling new career as a stylist, Tabitha's Hair Salon Intervention on Bravo, the whole hostage deelio or anything else from the past four years. I got it."

That list was more eclectic than Daniel would have thought, but it would do for now. "Great. Sounds great. Oh, Wilhelmina!"

Wilhelmina paused, mid-stride; the aquamarine scarf tossed around her neck still seemed to trail slightly behind her. It was as if she could carry around her own personal breeze. "Yes, Daniel?"

"You got the email I sent about Betty?"

"Indeed. Even by Suarez standards of mayhem, this latest predicament is – unusual."

"So you think you can return to behaving just like you did four years ago?"

"Without Marc here, it's going to be difficult," she sighed. "He truly is the carpet beneath my feet. But – going back to treating you with total, withering contempt at every moment? … It's doable."

With a gleam in her eyes, she sashayed off, and Daniel got the sense she was going to enjoy this way too much.

But then, why should he get to have all the fun? Sure, it was frustrating, having to go back to the beginning with Betty – particularly since thinking about their one kiss made him desperate for more – but redoing their beginning, better than before? That was a once in a lifetime chance, and he intended to roll with it.

Quickly he found one of the MODE office's many, many mirrors and checked out his look. Though his hair was a little shorter than it had been, he'd managed to create a similarly spiky effect with some hair gel. Purple tie: check. Oh, yeah, he had it down.

Amanda said, "I was going to switch to the Louboutins from a few years ago, but then I realized that Muppet Babies Betty wouldn't be able to tell the difference, and also I would rather die."

"I just canceled the temp for this week – but I'll take care of most of my own work," Daniel said. Amanda snorted. He said, "What?"

"Daniel, I don't think you even know what most of your own work is."

"Sure I do!"

"Where's your corporate AmEx card?"

He thought about that, frowned, pulled out his wallet, didn't find it and began the process of freaking out – all before Amanda held it up between two fingers. "How long have you had that?"

"Not long." Suddenly she couldn't look him in the eyes. "Definitely after the latest Kate Spade bags came out. WAY after that."

Daniel snatched his card back and stuffed it in his wallet. One other important element of the illusion still wasn't in place – but then she walked in.

"They say jet lag's easier going west, but then, they're all liars, aren't they?" Christina McKinney – fresh from the plane where he'd bought her a first-class ticket to visit – rolled her shiny red suitcase behind Amanda's reception desk and huffed her bangs away from her forehead. "I tell you, after six hours of plane travel, I could go for a scotch."

"It's, like, 10 a.m.," Amanda said, obviously newly sensitive to such things due to Tyler's influence.

"As far as my brain knows, it's mid-afternoon. A gentleman's six, you might say." Christina looked terrific in her flowing jacket and brilliantly colored top, and – most importantly – not much changed from her appearance four years ago. "Now, you're paying me for this week's work, you know."

"Absolutely." Daniel would have promised Christina a MODE cover if he'd had to. He considered giving her one anyway. "Thanks so much for doing this."

"It's for Betty." Christina shrugged, blowing off what had to have been an enormous disruption in her life. "She deserves this and more. And speak of the devil! I think he's gone back to dressing her."

Daniel turned to see Betty hurrying down the Tube. Her clothing was back to its vibrant, mismatched style – complete with golf socks and high heels worn together! – and whatever she had learned about hairstyling in the past four years had been forgotten. Even without those unfortunate bangs, her hair was now frowsy and limp.

Amanda cocked her head. "I can't tell if it's the world's worst wig or the world's ugliest hat."

"Shhh," Daniel said. All he could think was that she looked adorable. His Betty! His sweet, young, innocent Betty, back in his life where he could take care of her, like he hadn't before. And he was surprised to feel a distinct erotic thrill at the thought of taking those clothes off her … but maybe he should hold his imagination in check for a while yet.

"Good morning!" Christina called. "Come here, you!"

She wrapped her arms around Betty, who returned the hug, but tentatively. "Um, hi! Wow, Christina, are you okay?"

"Oh, I'm rushing things, aren't I?" Christina skipped back with a laugh. "Right, then! I'm headed back to the Closet. Drop in anytime, won't you, Betty?"

As Christina bustled down the Tube, Daniel clapped his hands together. "So, good morning – "

"What are you doing here this early?" Betty said, a worried crease forming between her eyebrows. "Did I forget a meeting?"

"Huh? Oh, no, nothing like that." 10 a.m. had once been early for him to make an appearance – he'd sort of forgotten that detail. Daniel plowed onward. "I thought I could get our coffee today for a change. If you'd like."

Betty gave him a stare as if he'd suggested dining on live toads for brunch. After a pause, she said, "Is this going to be like yesterday, when Marc told me the Chloe perfumed talcum was nondairy creamer?"

"Oh, no! Definitely not."

"Just the same, I'll get the coffee. It's safer that way," Betty said. "Sorry I didn't beat you in this morning. I promise, I can do better!"

With that she was gone, a multicolored rocket zipping back toward the elevators. Daniel leaned against the reception desk, smiling after her fondly. This little trip down Memory Lane was going to give him the chance to put right so much of what he'd done wrong. To appreciate Betty – _this_ Betty – as he ought to have done from the beginning.

Today was going to be amazing.

**oooooo**

_Today is going to suck_, Betty thought.

First of all, Daniel Meade had picked today to remember that the business world didn't start at noon, which meant she was late – this despite the fact that she worked for a guy who was normally going to bed around the time she got up. Then Christina was acting weird – okay, friendly weird, which made a nice change from the rest of the MODE staff, but still peculiar. And people were staring at her clothes. Again.

Well, too bad for anybody who thought more about what was on their body than what was inside their head. Betty had bigger concerns and more important things to think about than fashion; she dressed for joy and concentrated on other, more crucial issues instead …

… like, say, collecting at least eight different brands of lip balm so Daniel could pick the best one.

He hadn't mentioned that errand since the accident, but Betty remembered him asking. Who could forget that? Ever? This what not what she'd gone to Queens College for.

_Everybody has to start somewhere_, she reminded herself as she made her way through the Duane Reade. _Yes, this is turning out to be a bit – let's say menial, but at least it's simple, right? Anybody could do this! It's a cinch!_

For a moment, her temples throbbed, and Betty put her fingers to the side of her head, attempting to collect herself. She felt the disquieting sensation of knowing she had forgotten something, but not being positive what that might be.

But the moment passed, and with a sigh, she turned back to her task, reminding herself that every moment of it brought her closer to her ultimate goal.

Back at MODE, she walked into the main offices to see Amanda kissing a guy. A guy who was _not _Daniel Meade, in whose apartment she'd spent several evening hours lately. Betty hardly knew where to look as the tall man in question pulled away, gave Betty a wave and loped toward Daniel's office.

"He seems – friendly," Betty managed to say to Amanda.

"Isn't he hot?" Amanda propped her chin on her hands, and her smile was gleeful. "He's my new boyfriend. I broke up with Daniel for him in front of everybody. Daniel cried. It was awesome, and it all happened just like I told you."

Betty had trouble imagining Daniel crying over any woman yet born, but at least this would give her one less girl to keep track of when she was watching his apartment at night.

Blistex, Chapstick, Burt's Bees, Rosebud, Kiehl's, Carmex, Nivea, Vaseline: She put them all on Daniel's desk. He was out; the schedule on his desk (which actually seemed to be in his own handwriting) said he had a meeting with sales. That was probably code for "a three-martini lunch."

The phone on her desk began ringing, and she dove for it: "Daniel Meade's office."

"Is Mr. Meade in?" said a man's voice, silkily polite and yet oddly aggressive.

"He's in a meeting. Can I take a message?"

"Not right now. But let him know there's another meeting he needs to take – let's say, an hour after end of business tomorrow. It's quite important. A game-changer, shall we say? He'll want to be there."

Betty jotted this down on a pink message pad. "May I say who the meeting is with?"

"If he's curious, he can call this number and find out directly."

Although Betty took the number down, she was unsurprised when the caller then hung up without even saying "goodbye," much less "thank you." Probably it was some pretentious fashion designer trying to build up buzz for their newest show or zillion-dollar handbags or whatever. She tossed the message atop Daniel's in-box without bothering to mark it urgent. A good assistant would never waste her boss' time –

-_even if he wastes mine_.

Betty tried to banish the thought. She could deal with Daniel Meade as a boss if she had to. His neediness and demands would become predictable in time. Manageable. There would be nothing else to surprise her, nothing else to drag her down. Then she could concentrate on her career, really dive into the work she wanted …

Again, her temples throbbed. Again, Betty felt an odd disorientation – knowing she was meant to be somewhere else, but not where. But again, she pushed through it. Those were probably very ordinary first-job jitters.

As she got into the elevator, she initially gave a quick nod to the other woman riding down – then did a double take. _Oh, my God. It's not. It is. It's Sofia Reyes! My all-time idol!_

Had she read something about Sofia Reyes taking on a project at Meade Publications? Maybe she had. It seemed to Betty like something about that was niggling at the back of her mind. Whatever it was, it could hardly be as important as having her role model standing right there in the flesh. She had to say something, but she didn't want to come across as a gushing fan. Finally, Betty managed to say, "Listen, I just had to tell you – I loved your last book. It really spoke to me."

"Really?" Ms. Reyes seemed far more surprised by that than Betty would have thought. "I'm surprised you read it."

"It was a national bestseller!"

"Yes, but – well, thank you. I appreciate that more than you know." Ms. Reyes cocked her head. "Do you think Daniel read it? I'd love to know what he thought."

Sofia Reyes knew Daniel Meade? _Well, duh_, Betty realized: _If she's working with Meade Publications, she must have studied up on Daniel and his dad_. "I'll tell him you asked."

"Oh, no. Please don't. If he knew I'd asked – well. It's awkward."

Maybe that was some kind of publishing etiquette Betty wasn't familiar with yet. "I'll drop a hint that he should take a look. If he's read it already –" Based on her few days' acquaintance with Daniel, Betty found that unlikely, but you never knew – "then no doubt he'll mention it to you. Probably he can't wait to talk about it."

That was glossing things over considerably, but hey, that was her job, right? To make her boss look good.

A slow smile spread across Ms. Reyes' face. "That would be wonderful. Seriously – thank you."

"No problem," Betty said cheerfully, as the elevator doors opened and she strode out into the lobby. Her mood was once again sky-high. Sofia Reyes! She'd actually had a conversation with the Sofia Reyes! Oh, her life was about to become so much more interesting, so much more fulfilling …

… right after she picked up Daniel's dry cleaning. From four different cleaners. "I like to comparison-shop," he'd said.

With a sigh, she headed back down Fifth Avenue, determined to do her best with what she'd been given.

**oooooo**

Hilda spent a frantic morning trying to keep her father from doing the breakfast dishes, or going out to play dominoes in the perpetual card-table game at the corner. One morning making pancakes, and suddenly he wanted to pretend nothing was wrong with him!

For now, though, Papi was on his own. She had an errand to run.

The best kind of errand.

She saw Bobby's car half a block away and had run out into the street as if to block his path, like he hadn't come there to pick her up. But hey, a girl got eager after a few nights without her sweetie.

"Where are we headed?"

"The LaQuinta out by JFK." Bobby said by way of reply. "And hello there, baby."

"Hello." Their lips met in a long, satisfying kiss that was only broken when the gypsy cab behind them started honking for Bobby to move. As Bobby started driving again, Hilda yelled out the window, "Where the hell are you going in such a hurry, huh? Calm down! We have love happening here!"

One of Bobby's hands found Hilda's thigh, though he remained focused on the road. "How long is this amnesia thing with Betty gonna keep happening? I miss you something awful."

"I miss you too, but it takes as long as it takes." Hilda sighed.

Bobby's foot stomped on the accelerator with all the eagerness of a groom who is about to be alone with his bride for the first time in almost a week. "So the doc said this is all a psychological thing? From the hostage crisis?"

"Yeah, and maybe some other stress."

"Like what?"

"Well, her new job, and our dad being sick, and – " Hilda paused, mid-checking out her mascara in the passenger-side mirror. She realized she had no idea what else might be troubling Betty right now. Not that being held hostage by a crazy woman wasn't more than enough trauma to explain this whole thing, but still – most of their lives, she and Betty had told each other nearly everything. It spilled out while they shared a bathroom, or sat around the kitchen table, or hung out on the stoop. When Betty moved to Manhattan, both times, that had weakened slightly, but they had their cell phones. They made it happen.

Then Hilda had fallen for Bobby, and … that had changed. Hilda's cheeks pinked as she realized how fully she'd allowed her new marriage to dominate her brain, so much so that she hadn't sat down once with her baby sister to talk things out since – what, before the wedding? That was crazy! And yet, it was true.

She finished, "I don't know what all. But something got her seriously rattled, if she's trying to hide back in 2006."

"Damn, I hope she shakes it off soon. Because it sucks not spending time with my girl."

Hilda covered his hand with hers. "You've got a long lunch hour to work with. Let's see what you can do with it."

Bobby's grin only widened as the engine revved.

**oooooo**

Daniel returned from his meeting with sales to find Betty in his office – and for the first moment, the sight was so pleasantly nostalgic that he couldn't help beaming. Soon they'd be talking over the day, and he could ask her about the Fabia Cosmetics spread like it was a bold new idea, and everything would be great.

Then he saw what she was putting on his desk: A plate piled high with – white goop?

"Daniel! Hi. I got you coleslaw the way you like it – no cabbage. Just tart, tangy dressing." Betty looked frazzled, as well she might be after that particular task. "I got three orders of coleslaw to put together so we could maximize the dressing involved. And no worries, it's not room temperature yet."

Miserably, he said, "Oh, God."

Betty's head tilted to one side. "Did you not want it again today? After the last three days –"

"No, no! That's – ah, that's great. Very enterprising of you. But tomorrow maybe we can order in lunch for us both. How would that be?"

She nodded. "Great."

But she didn't say it like it was great. She said it like she knew she was supposed to say it was great. The way people talked to people they _had _to talk to. Like their bosses.

_I'm still just a boss to her_, he realized unhappily._ A bad boss. _Daniel had wanted to redo this particular part of his life, but he hadn't quite realized redoing it would mean reliving it.

Through an act of will, he kept his smile on his face. If they were reliving the parts where he was a jerk to Betty, maybe they could relive the good parts, too. "Listen – forget lunch tomorrow. Let's grab dinner tonight after work. We'll talk about the magazine. You can tell me a little bit more about what you hope to accomplish here. And … I know a place that serves a really good slice of pizza."

Betty hesitated, obviously suspecting a trap, but unable to see one. "All right," she said warily. "I'll have to let my family know I'll be late. And I shouldn't stay out after nine."

It's going to be a job of work, cramming everything in before nine pm, but a man must do what a man must do. "Great. Thanks."

"Oh, by the way, I ran into Sofia Reyes in the elevator."

Daniel's heart leaped. She was talking about somebody they both knew! Memory had come back in an instant! Thank God. "Sofia, huh?"

"So, you do know who she is?"

And his heart did the opposite of leaping. Not sinking, exactly. Slumping, maybe. "Uh, yeah. She edits MYW." Maybe that would remind Betty.

Betty brightened up. "Sofia Reyes is doing a magazine for Meade Publications? Daniel, that's, like - I can't even say what that's like!"

"I'm sure I could think of something." Daniel tried to take some comfort from the fact that at least Betty was smiling at him – _really_ smiling – well, maybe not at him, but in his presence and general vicinity.

Then she said, "Well, tell your father that I think that's brilliant."

As if Dad were only upstairs, a quick elevator ride away.

"Daniel?" Betty's expression shifted into concern, and he knew his dismay had to show on his face. "Oh. Did I – I guess your father doesn't need my opinion. Seeing as how I'm your new assistant and he's a publishing titan."

"I'm sure he'd be glad to hear it," Daniel managed to say. And the thing was, it felt true.

"Well. Okay. I'm going to run some errands throughout the office. By the way, only one of those dry cleaners had anything for you. Are you sure you gave me the right list?"

"I'll handle it. Thanks."

"Enjoy your lunch!"

As Betty bustled out of his office, Daniel sat heavily in his office chair. The glistening mound of coleslaw dressing jiggled there, like some kind of invading space alien. And why were there eight kinds of lip balm lined up on his desk? Oh, _crap_.

With a groan, he knocked the plate into the trashcan – forgetting, unfortunately, that coleslaw dressing plus gravity equals spatter.

While using leftover napkins inside his desk to wipe down his trouser legs, he wondered how he'd managed to forget this episode in his life with Betty. No, her memory didn't include the absolute worst thing he'd done to her; thankfully, that terrible photo shoot where he'd made her dress up for the mockery of others was one of the many recollections erased by her amnesia. But Daniel now realized that he'd experienced his own form of amnesia over the past few years. Although he'd never, ever forgotten that photo shoot, or stopped feeling crappy about it, he now thought that moment was so awful that its shadow had eclipsed all the other nasty things he'd done to Betty during her first week as his assistant. He'd allowed himself to forget them. Like one vast sin somehow invalidated all the petty tyrannies he'd worked on her before.

Betty hadn't forgotten those. No, even now – when she was suffering from a head injury that knocked out events as huge as her new job, her father's heart trouble and her sister's wedding – even now she remembered the times he'd made her pick the cabbage out of coleslaw.

Daniel stared down at the leg of his trousers. The greasy blotches there wouldn't be easily wiped away; they were seriously stained, if not ruined.

_Tonight_, he reminded himself. _Tonight you're taking Betty out to relive some of the good times. Maybe that will make up for reliving the bad times. Because we've had more good than bad. Right? _

_Except that time I fired her. _

_And the time I ran her down in her Blobbys interview. _

_And the time I set fire to her release. _

_You know what? This isn't helping. _

Daniel decided to focus on fixing the one thing he knew was in his power right now, i.e., his suit. The dry cleaning Betty had unwittingly collected from his regular place only contained a couple of shirts, but they'd have some stuff in his size down in the Closet. Plus, Christina did the best hemming of cuffed pants this side of Soho.

He headed down there, positive attitude slowly returning as he took some action – only to stop short just outside the doorway when he heard Betty's voice. "Oh, I don't know, Christina."

"I'm telling you right now, you'd look marvelous in the turquoise jacket. Don't ask me how I know! It's just a feeling I have."

Well, of course Betty was down here chatting with Christina. That was the whole reason he'd flown Christina over here – not only to complete the illusion that this was 2006, but also to serve as Betty's confidante and ally again, as she had at a time when Betty had really needed it.

Resolving to let them have at it, he turned to go, but froze as he heard Betty say, "Well, I've got a mandatory dinner with the boss tonight, so maybe I should try it on. Probably he wants to go to some fancy place. He did say pizza, but it's probably the kind of pizza that's all, like, Turkish goat cheese and grapes and Brussels sprouts and other things no sane person wants on their pizza."

"Give it a go, won't you?" The sound of fabric slipping off a hanger accompanied Christina's words. "And dinner with Daniel Meade, you say. Well, that sounds nice. Like he's turning over a new leaf, perhaps."

"That guy? Hardly. Today I had to pick up eight different kinds of lip balm, and go to four different dry cleaners – only one of which had actual clothes of his, by the way – and ordered coleslaw with … you know, let's skip that. Now he's demanding I waste my night on him the same way I waste my days."

Christina tsk-tsked. "He asked you to do that _today_? I'd not have thought it of him."

"He asked me the other day, and I remembered."

"Ahhh. Well, maybe he's not all bad. Your whole job can't be a waste of time, can it?"

Daniel brightened. Christina was sticking up for him! Which was – unlike her, really, but then again, he had just flown her across the Atlantic to help Betty. Maybe that had convinced Christina he was worth rooting for.

"You're right," Betty said, and for some infinitesimal fraction of a second, Daniel was happy. Then she spoke again. "This job isn't a waste. It's my first chance. The foot in the door. I'm paying my dues and learning about the industry, close up – and that's always worthwhile. Even if I do have to work for a horrible human being."

Greasy-trousered and numb, Daniel shuffled back toward the elevator bank. Too late, he thought he understood why Betty's mind had pushed her so far back in time. It was about more than escaping from the hostage situation, bigger than stress about her new job.

No, Betty had wanted to forget that she'd ever fallen for anybody who'd treated her as badly as Daniel Meade.

_continued tomorrow - _


	17. You Must Remember This, Part Two

Monday ended just as Betty felt like she was finding her groove. She'd cleared away all of Daniel's weird errands by mid-afternoon; he was oddly quiet the rest of the day, which let her dig into tasks that felt more appropriate to an assistant. His appointment calendar was in better shape than she remembered – and the notes were all in his own handwriting, which made a nice change – and she was able to slot in a few calls and meetings that came up for next week. She found a staffer who wasn't totally hostile, a few of them actually, and finally got a solid understanding of MODE's copy flow. That would help a lot down the line. Remembering what Daniel had said earlier that day, she even put together a few thoughts about the Fabia Cosmetics insert.

Of course, if he thought her ideas were any good, he'd steal them, but that was the fate of any assistant. Betty figured she could deal with that when the time came.

People began trickling out as the workday drew to a close. Amanda sashayed to the elevator on the elbow of that guy she was dating; Betty had glimpsed him talking amiably to Daniel across the office earlier, so apparently Daniel hadn't taken the breakup that hard. Wilhelmina swooped out so dramatically that it was easy to imagine her being followed by her flock of winged monkeys. But Daniel himself showed no sign of leaving his desk … or recalling the suggestion he'd made earlier that day.

Finally she phoned Christina. "Do you think it's okay if I just leave?" she whispered.

"What, you don't want to pitch him your idea for Fabia Cosmetics? Thought it was a winner, myself. And this time, he'll look at it straightaway!"

No telling what Christina meant by "this time," but Betty remained reluctant. "I could just write it up for him. Leave it on his desk. That way I'd get to spend the evening with my family like I actually want to _and_ pitch my idea."

"And what are the odds of Daniel Meade actually reading anything put on his desk? For that matter, reading anything besides the expiration date on his packs of condoms?"

That was a good point. With a sigh, Betty said, "Okay, fine, but I'm going to ask him if he still wants to do this. I'm not going to sit at my desk for two hours just to find out he wants me to spend one more evening making sure his various girls don't run into each other at his doorstep."

"That's the spirit, m'dear! Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to Magnolia Cupcakes. Been too long since I stuffed myself with some banana pudding. Best washed down with banana daiquiris – try it sometime!" Christina sounded like it was a big treat to head up to the West 50s, instead of something she could do any day. "Let's be sure to do lunch some day this week, hmm, Betty?"

"Absolutely." No telling what the rush was, since they could do lunch anytime, but Christina was definitely the only real friend she'd ever have at MODE –

-Betty winced as her temples throbbed, and the lump still on her head seemed to remind her that it could always start swelling again if it felt like it. Disoriented, she looked around her until the surroundings were real again: her desk, the glass wall, and Daniel moping at his desk.

Even over the phone line, Christina's voice sounded concerned, "Betty? You all right?"

"I'm fine," Betty said, though it didn't seem entirely true.

Finally she ventured into her boss' office. He sat upright as she did so, as if he were worried about being caught acting lazy. "Daniel? Are we heading to dinner tonight, or have you made other plans?"

He took a deep breath. "Let's do dinner. But Betty, I've got to say upfront, I don't want this to be uncomfortable for you. I won't make a habit of this. Your free time is your own, and – I admit, the past few hours, I've felt guilty just for asking you. But we're just getting to know each other right now, though, so … maybe it's worth an evening?"

"Sure," she said, and Daniel brightened. It was as if he'd actually been afraid she wouldn't say yes.

To her surprise, instead of taking her to the dreaded gourmet pizza place, he took her to a low-key joint on the outskirts of the theatre district. Delicious-smelling pies with the classic toppings, red-and-white check tablecloths, even a little stage for people to sing karaoke: It was just the kind of place she loved.

Well, she'd have to give Daniel points for trying to please her. It was a small gesture – nowhere near what it would take to make her forget he was a coleslaw freak – but Betty appreciated it all the same.

It only got better as she detailed her thoughts about the Fabia Cosmetics shoot. Daniel listened – really listened – and Betty found herself opening up, just a tad. "My mom was sick by the time I was old enough to use makeup. But I remember her showing Hilda how to apply mascara. I was little bitty – under Hilda's bed, I think – and I thought I was hiding, though I'm sure now they knew I was there. It seemed like the most magical moment – my mother teaching my sister what it meant to be an adult woman. I wanted to be a part of that." Okay, too personal for a chat with the boss. "Probably most women have similar memories of their mothers, and they want to share those experiences with their daughters. And advertisers can never go wrong by suggesting that their product enhances family quality time. Think about it – car ads sell places the family can go together. Food ads show families eating together happily. Home furnishings? There's the family on the furniture. People love to think you can buy togetherness."

"It's not quite the same for fashion products – glamour and sex appeal work better there – but Fabia's line already had that in spades," Daniel said. "The special insert shows another side of the company. The female-bonding, the family angle – and it was shot to capture the glamour, too. I mean, will be shot. If we do it. Which we will. Um, probably."

"You mean it?" Betty had hardly dared hope for that. "You'll run it by Fabia?"

"Consider it done already." A small, fleeting smile appeared on Daniel's face. He kept turning his small glass of Chianti around and around, as if he couldn't get comfortable. Maybe he felt out of place in a neighborhood hole in the wall like this … which only made it nicer that he'd brought her here so she'd be at ease. "Of course you get the credit for the Fabia concept, Betty."

"Really?"

"Really."

That sounded – too good to be true, particularly coming from Daniel Meade, but hope flickered deep in Betty's heart anyway. She grinned at him, the first real smile she'd given him since their introduction; he seemed to like the look of it. And hey, her smile was probably amazing now, without the braces.

_Too bad you never got to see it, Walter_, she thought. They hadn't been broken up a whole week, and yet his absence hardly stung. And yet her mind kept returning to him, as if her old relationship with Walter ought to remind her of something … a longing not for him, specifically, but for love itself …

Clearing his throat, Daniel said, "So. Do you want to put our name in to sing?"

She blinked at him a couple of times before she believed what she'd heard. "To sing – karaoke? You and me?"

"Sure. Why not?" Daniel gestured at the stage, where an elderly woman in an IHEARTNY T-shirt was warbling an '80s pop song. "Maybe some Sonny and Cher?"

"If it's okay with you – I'd really rather not. My singing voice is only good for the shower."

"I'm not exactly Pavarotti either," he said, as if that should be encouraging instead of the reverse. "Come on. I'm game if you are."

This was getting into a whole weird area. "Please don't make me," she said in a small voice. "I'd feel really uncomfortable."

_Not in front of the crowd_, she thought._ In front of you._ Betty minded Daniel less than she had before, but now – now his opinion meant something to her. His approval could be had, and might even be worth having. Which meant it was not the right time to make a fool out of herself in front of him, even though she usually _loved_ karaoke.

Hastily Daniel said, "I'd never want to make you feel uncomfortable in front of other people. In front of anybody. So scratch it. Never mind. Sorry. Don't know what I was thinking."

Betty was starting to think that maybe he'd seen her without her braces and decided she could be the latest assistant to give him a blowjob. That would explain the sudden attack of niceness.

_No, I think he's actually trying. I could give him a chance, right? He seems to be acting a lot better. So why do I keep trying to see the worst in him? _

This reasonable question made her head throb again, but this time she simply pushed past it. Another sip of Chianti might help. Or maybe it would help more if she didn't have to listen to this woman butchering "Breakout."

A chiming sound made Daniel take his cell phone out of his jacket for a moment, but he simply shrugged. "That's just Tyler. I can get him later."

"Tyler?"

"You know, my bro – umm, my broker. He wants to talk stocks."

"At 7:30 on a Monday night?"

He gave her a weak, tentative smile. "It's never too early for the Nikkei?"

That seemed somehow off to Betty, but her attention was soon drawn away from their conversation and toward his phone. "Wow. What is that?"

Daniel shrugged. "My iPhone."

"Your what?"

"Wait, did they not – God, that seems like longer ago. You've never seen one?"

Betty shook her head, and he slid it across the table to her. Wow, rich people had amazing cell phones. "How do you – oh, hey, you scroll through! I figured it out by myself. And the colored squares – oh, hey, this one is Tetris!" She got so caught up playing with the thing that she hardly noticed Daniel paying their check. "How come they don't advertise these? Everybody would buy one, no matter how expensive they were."

"Only a matter of time."

The iPhone was only handed back over, reluctantly, when they finally stepped back outside. Heat the pavements had absorbed all day in the sun radiated upward, making the early evening almost as hot as it had been at noon. They were having such unseasonably warm weather – as it were the height of summer instead of the beginning of fall –

"Don't suppose you'd be interested in talking a walk," Daniel said, interrupting her train of thought. "Or a taxi ride."

"Where to?"

"The Brooklyn Bridge?"

Okay, rich people might have great phones, but they were also deeply weird. "It's about time I get home," Betty said. She'd always wanted to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge and see the city skyline, but that felt too private to share with her boss. At least – at least not yet. "But thanks for the invitation anyway."

He seemed incredibly disappointed. Betty once again entertained the blowjob theory (maybe he had some fetish about getting one while he had a view of the city skyline?), but not very seriously, particularly not after he flagged her a cab and handed her two fifties to cover the fare. "This is way too much!"

"I can comp it. Working dinner," he said. "Have a good night, Betty."

"Thanks. You too."

She found herself turning to look at him from the rear window as the taxi drove away; Daniel simply stood there, hands in his pockets, watching her go.

Finally Betty had to admit to herself: _That went a lot better than I would ever have imagined. _

**oooooo**

"The whole night was a complete disaster," Daniel moaned as he slumped on the couch in his brand-new apartment, i.e., the one Betty had never, ever seen furnished and now probably never would. "Nothing was the same. I should've known it wouldn't be. But I thought if anything went the way it did last time, she'd remember. I hadn't realized how much better we already knew each other by then."

Tyler shook his head. He had come by to hang out on several evenings since the hostage crisis; some long-overdue brotherly bonding had finally begun. "Some moments, you can't recreate. It's better not to try."

"I guess." Daniel took a sip of his rum-and-Coke, which was currently masquerading as a regular Coke for the sake of Tyler's recovery. "She did seem to hate me a little less. That's something, right?" Just so much less than he wanted.

"Why are you stressing about this so much? Betty's one of your best friends in the world. The doc says she'll get her memory back any day now. You were kind of enjoying the whole trip down memory lane until this."

Brotherly bonding had not yet reached the point of Daniel telling Tyler about his dawning romance with Betty. Now that Daniel finally would have felt comfortable talking to Tyler about it, the subject had become too painful to easily discuss. "Betty is – she's the person who got me to stop acting like an entitled brat and start acting like a man. Maybe I judge myself by the way she sees me. That makes it hard to go back to a time when she saw me as a total jerk."

Tyler considered this as he drank his own Coke, which was really a Coke. "When I first got out of rehab, I leaned on Amanda too much. After that whole incident with Victoria Hartley, I realized I was going to have to stand on my own two feet if I wanted to stand at all. And I also realized my world was bigger than one person – no matter how much that person means to me."

Daniel considered this. "It's only natural to lean on people you love."

"When you need it, sure. The trick is not needing it all the time." Tyler sighed. "I mean, I'm a pretty balanced guy, usually. At least, since my first visit to rehab. But learning the truth about who I was – my birth parents, you, Matt, Alexis – it seriously threw me off my game. When you and Matt came through for me, I realized I needed to be a guy who could come through for you guys, too. That there was more to me than the drunk I used to be. More than being Amanda's boyfriend. I've got to walk the walk, you know? Nobody else can walk it for me."

"Or for me."

"Exactly."

Betty wouldn't want to be with a guy she had to praise and prop up every second. Daniel wouldn't want to be that guy anyway. If he couldn't face her not liking him at first – a phase of their relationship, as true as the rest – then how would he be able to face rougher times ahead? Because if he got the future he wanted with Betty – the one where she not only saw this apartment but someday moved in, the one where the little side room became a nursery instead of the place the still-packed boxes lived – there would be rough times. That was just part of life, even a good life.

From the start, he'd known he was willing to work as hard as he had to, to do whatever it took, to make Betty his. And now he was sitting here whining because it was a little harder than he'd expected? No, he could take it. He could deal. If he had to court Betty all over again – from the beginning – then that was what he'd do.

He gave his brother a sidelong glance. "You're a smart guy."

"Back home, they used to call me Yoda."

"Really?"

"No." Tyler cracked up laughing. "Gullible, this one is. Yes."

Daniel set his rum-and-Coke aside to punch Tyler in the arm. Besides, he no longer felt like he needed the drink. "I feel the need to kick your ass at Madden NFL."

"Oh yeah?" Grabbing for the controls, Tyler said, "Bring it!"

**oooooo**

Another morning, another breakfast. Today: huevos rancheros.

Ignacio had rarely appreciated these simple joys before – cracking eggs, chopping peppers. He'd always liked cooking, but more in terms of eating the results; now, just watching the eggs sizzle and whiten in skillet seemed delightful.

"Papi, no!" Hilda said, once again fully dressed as she made her first appearance of the morning. "I bought Entemann's coffee cake so you wouldn't have to do that."

"I like doing it. It's fine. Save the coffee cake for tonight. I want to eat some while I watch my stories."

"You shouldn't eat stuff like that."

"You bought it!"

"For us, not for – "

"Not for the 'patient'? Hilda, let it go. I'm good most of the time. One slice of coffee cake won't do me in."

From outside, he heard the sound of someone skidding across the roof, then plummeting down to the stoop. Once upon a time, that sound had meant Santos escaping from Hilda's room, as though Ignacio were both stupid and deaf. Now it meant something very different as he heard a squeaky fake voice ask, "Is the coast clear?"

"Get in here, Justin!" Hilda said. He did so, eagerly grabbing a plate for some huevos rancheros. "You can't eat those in the kitchen. She might see you."

"Paper plate, Mom. Plastic fork. I'll eat this outside and throw them away later. God, I am like, a walking eco-disaster. How long before Aunt Betty gets her groove back and we can return to more environmentally conscious dining arrangements?"

"God only knows," Ignacio said. He realized he wasn't necessarily looking forward to the day. Of course he wanted his _mija_ to be herself again, to know that she was healthy and could return to her wonderful new job – but he liked revisiting this time in his life. He liked having a little coffee cake now and then. He liked cooking breakfast.

Footsteps on the stairs made them all straighten up. "Dining al fresco, as of now," Justin said, heaping his paper plate high with huevos rancheros before hurrying back out the rear door. Ignacio shut it behind him just before Betty made her appearance.

"Wow, those smell great." Betty sniffed the air with satisfaction. "Thanks, Papi."

"How're you doing?" Hilda asked, as suddenly and startlingly attentive as she used to be during Herbalife pitches. "Tell me what's going on with you, little sister. Tell me everything. I really truly want to hear it."

Betty gave her a look. "You're going to tell me to try and get Walter back, aren't you?"

That was a name Ignacio hadn't heard in a while. Hilda's eyes went wide. "That – had not occurred to me, actually."

"Of course it did," Betty huffed as she served up her own eggs onto a plate. "You're always telling me how Walter's the best thing that ever happened to me. That we'd have a good life together, the best any woman could expect. Well, I don't see how it's a good life if he's not faithful."

Once upon a time, Ignacio had liked Walter. He'd even thought Betty should forgive him for that incident with Gina Gambarro – because by that time, Walter was a part of their family, someone who had spent years coming in and out of the house as he pleased, who bought Christmas presents for them all, and who always gave Betty little tokens of affection, like keychains that were also flashlights. Now, though, it was impossible to imagine Walter as a suitable husband for her. They'd all realized that her horizons were far greater than any of them had once dared to imagine.

"I can do better," Betty said, almost dreamily. "It's like I can almost see who that guy would be. The one who's my friend, but crazy romantic, but makes me laugh. The one who shares my dreams. And that's definitely not Walter."

Hilda seemed to be totally caught off-guard, a reaction rare enough that Ignacio could enjoy it for its own sake. "Yeah, no, right. Definitely not Walter. For sure."

"I hardly even miss him." This was spoken through a mouthful of eggs. "It's like a distant memory already. Like my braces. Huh."

Ignacio and Hilda shared a look. "You think so?" he tried.

Betty shrugged. "I know it's an illusion, but who cares? As long as I can concentrate on my new job, which I think – I think might really work out."

"Never doubted that for a second," Ignacio lied, serving her another helping – and spooning out some huevos rancheros for himself, too. Just a little. A taste would set him up fine.

There was no point in staying alive if you weren't enjoying life.

**oooooo**

Daniel arrived at MODE even earlier than the day before. He put a Danish on Betty's desk and even took a coffee to Amanda. While sipping his own, he strolled by Wilhelmina's office, where she was busily examining the book.

She glanced upward. "Don't tell me. You've finally decided to learn the difference between a caption and a cutline."

"Betty's not even here, Wilhelmina."

With a shrug, she said, "You can't ask me to turn it off and on like a switch."

"Just wanted to say – something I should've said before, really – "

"The possibilities are dizzying."

"…whatever's going on with you and Connor? I know it doesn't affect how you do your job here. It never would. So if you were worried about that, don't be."

"I don't waste much time worrying about you, Daniel." But as her eyes flicked back to the ad spread in front of her, she quietly added, "I appreciate that."

That had helped; Daniel knew that. Yet the simplicity of the moment drove home for him a fact he'd somehow failed to confront these past few months: Wilhelmina deserved more than this.

She'd always schemed and planned for more; Daniel would never forget some of the manipulations she'd worked to undermine him and his whole family. It was particularly hard to forgive her for driving a wedge between him and his father during the final months of Dad's life. And yet – if he didn't make it personal, if he didn't look at the grudges or gripes or occasional felony – he had to admit that based on pure ability, Wilhelmina outclassed him. Or Mom. Maybe not Alexis, but Alexis showed no sign of ever returning to this side of the Atlantic.

By all rights, he ought to find a bigger, better role for Wilhelmina before she took her considerable talents somewhere else. But did the trust he had in her extend that far?

This was just the kind of thing he'd have wanted to talk over with Betty …

"Are you waiting for something, Daniel, or have you decided to add 'room décor' to your resume? Then it would be at least two lines long." Wilhelmina's eyebrow arched to exactly match the curve of the lapels on her Carolina Herrera jacket. How did she do that?

"Sorry. See you." Daniel flipped her a quick wave as he headed back to his office.

He arrived in time to see his mother, looking equal parts amused and bemused, making an appointment to see him with Betty. "Yes," she said dryly. "Daniel knows me."

"Mom!" Daniel put his arm around her quickly. "Mom, this is my new assistant, Betty. Betty, this is my mother, Claire Meade. I bet you two are going to get along."

"He's uncanny that way," Claire said, utterly straight-faced. "Sometimes I think he's psychic."

"You should've told me – sorry, Mrs. Meade." Although slightly flustered, Betty regained her composure within moments. "Only one call so far this morning: The connection was kind of breaking up, so I'm not sure I really got it, but I think it was something called 'Reel One'? Maybe some kind of film festival?"

Daniel shrugged, taking the note with some indifference. "I'll google them, see what kind of outfit they are."

"I can do that!" Betty hastily added. "That's my job."

She looked so eager and hopeful. Today she wore a brilliant red blouse that tied in a bow at the neck, paired with a purple skirt that had mustard-colored rick-rack at the hem. The golf socks and heels were back. His heart filled with nostalgia and affection. "Tell you what," he said. "Let me do this. I have something more important for you to handle today."

"Really?" Betty looked wary. He couldn't blame her.

"What I want you to do is to crack open the MODE archives. Go through as many issues as you can from 1973 to about – say 1978. There's a big '70s retro thing happening; we might be able to reuse some of the old images for then-and-now photo spreads, or just use them for visual cues on new shoots. Look for anything that uses a lot of denim, peasant-style shirts, or long skirts. Floppy hats, too."

She brightened as she jotted down notes. "Do you want me to make notes on font treatment, too?"

"Yes! Absolutely. Good idea." It was difficult for Daniel to ignore the way his mother was stifling her grin, but he did his best. "Scan some in, have them ready for me at the end of the day."

"Will do." Betty paused for just a moment, her smile hesitant but a smile all the same. "Um, thanks for the Danish. How did you know I liked apple?"

"Like I said," Claire replied. "Psychic."

"Why don't we talk in my office, Mom?" Daniel steered her in there and got the door shut before she started chuckling. "Very funny."

"Look at you, jumping through so many hoops. Too bad Betty had to get another job as soon as she finally got you properly trained."

"You've actually got her doing something useful. Are you trying to milk one more week's work out of your best assistant?"

After considering the question for a moment, Daniel said, "I'm just trying to act like the boss she should have had all along."

Claire's hand patted his shoulder, fond and proud.

**oooooo**

Hilda flopped back on the hotel bed, gasping and delighted. "Baby, you are a master of the quickie."

"You oughta see what I can do with a whole night," Bobby said as he snuggled by her side. "We should try that sometime soon. Any sign Betty's getting better?"

"Not yet. But this morning – "

"Yeah?"

"—all this time, I've been noticing how much she's changed. Like, figuring out how to mix patterns, and finally learning how to do a blowout, right? But today she made me realize how much I've changed, too."

"What do you mean?"

Rolling over on her stomach, propped up on her forearms, Hilda sought the right words in Bobby's gentle gaze. "I used to want her to marry Walter … this guy she used to date. He was okay, I guess. But nothing special. I used to think there was no way any of us were ever gonna get more than 'nothing special.'" Bobby's fingers traced along her bare shoulder as she spoke. "It's just weird is all. I really used to tell Betty to settle for less all the time. Not to go after the big job, or the dream guy or any of that. At the time I thought I was only looking out for her. Being realistic, you know? Now I realize I was just scared. If she'd listened to my advice, I really could've wrecked her life."

He said, "Hey, look at the bright side."

Hilda waited.

His face split in a grin. "Nobody ever listens to you."

"You're in trouble now, mister!" Laughing, Hilda went after him with the pillow, and he returned fire, and about 30 seconds of pillow fight turned into a couple minutes of passionate making out.

When they parted for breath, Bobby said, "How long we got?"

"Still got …" Hilda grabbed her cell phone from the bedside table. "Seventeen minutes before we need to be back in the car."

"I love a challenge."

As he pulled her back into his arms, he said, "I could come by the house, you know. Betty already knew who I was. I could act like I was taking you out on a first date all over again."

"Aww. That's so romantic!"

"Not quite as much fun as this, though. You know, I think I like sneaking around."

"Yeah. Kinda makes it dirty all over again."

Bobby laughed. "Far as I'm concerned, that girl needs to get amnesia all the time."

**oooooo**

Betty spent the whole day immersed in fashion … and liked it.

It was sort of amazing, really, watching the way the clothes changed season by season, year by year. Better yet was the way the magazine changed to fit the clothes, draping itself around the styles the same way fabric draped around the human form. Fonts were mixed radically, from elegant, old-fashioned serifs to wacky tube letters in near-neon colors – the identical way that calico and sequins had come into style at the same time.

_Fashion is a kind of text_, she realized. _You can read it. You can study it. You can write it, if you know how. _

This was a revelation to Betty, professionally and, she had to admit, personally. Yes, she'd always adore vibrant colors, and she'd never turn herself into a person who preferred beige – but there might be a way to channel her love of hue and pattern into the forms MODE was showing her. Maybe this was what Daniel had really wanted her to see, with this assignment; he was smarter than she'd realized at first. Who would've thought she could learn anything from a playboy?

Not that she'd give up her golf socks, though. Never!

Better yet was the fact that she finally spent a day acting like a professional journalist instead of an errand girl. Betty knew her job would often involve errands – that was an assistant's proper role – but now at least Daniel would only send her on errands worth running.

Her head swam again, and her thoughts jumbled together oddly: Understanding clothing, being a professional, Daniel being nice –

"How's it going in here?" Christina stuck her head into the archives again. "Find any more lovely riding boots to show me?"

Jolted back to the here and now – or was it? – Betty shook her head. "I kind of like this wrap dress. This designer isn't afraid of color."

"Oh, my God – you've found the first MODE spread about Diane Von Furstenburg! Fancy that!" Instantly Christina dived for it, her lips pursing into a silent oooh as she studied the glossy paper. "I could dive into this like it was a Jacuzzi filled with tequila."

"Well, I should go type up my notes for Daniel, anyway," Betty said. "You were right, by the way. He's … okay."

"I think he wants you to be happy here," Christina said, "And trust me, I'm not in the business of cutting him much slack. But you always bring out the best in people, Betty. Daniel Meade included."

Daniel was taking part in a meeting upstairs as she wrote up her notes and finished her workday; he'd already sent an email telling her to feel free to leave when her job was done, even if that was a little early. Normally Betty would have rushed to the subway, eager to be home … but Manhattan seemed a little less frightening than it had a couple days ago. Maybe she could take an hour or two to just … explore.

Betty quickly texted her father not to hold dinner on her account, then wandered out into the city proper. Of course, she knew Manhattan well enough; she'd insisted on visiting as often as possible, more often than anybody else in her family ever wanted to go. But that meant Times Square, or the big museums. She'd never strolled past the luxury boutiques – at least not while she paid attention to the fashions showcased inside.

Some of it still struck her as absurd, and all the prices were outrageous: $15,000 for a handbag? For that you could just carry your stuff around in a brand-new Hyundai.

But it wasn't purely laughable to her any longer. These colors and shapes all spoke to each other, in a way.

She paused a particularly long time in front of a store that had a pretty peacock-colored dress in the window. It seemed – familiar, in the way that beautiful things often seemed to be already known rather than discovered. That color would look good on her. Sexy, even. Betty rarely dared to think of herself as sexy … even Walter had usually described her as "cuddly!" … but she had a very distinct vision of herself in that dress, running out to meet some gorgeous guy who wouldn't be able to resist tearing it off her body …

Once again, she put her fingers to her temples, but Betty realized the headache wasn't actually any worse than it had been at any other time that day. The disorientation came from something else. Something she really ought to be able to call to mind, but couldn't.

Disquieted, Betty continued her stroll down the street. At this next intersection, the shopping became a lot less fancy; instead of chic little bistros, people ducked in to eat at cheap Chinese joints or Quizno's. The designer labels gave way to Old Navy and New York & Company. And there, on the corner, as brilliantly illuminated as it were trying to recreate Times Square in miniature, was the flagship Pro Buy.

_Walter used to talk about this place like it was Westminster Abbey_, she thought. _He wanted a transfer out here so badly. Said it was different. Special. Like any Pro Buy is very different from any other Pro Buy. _

And yet she found herself wandering inside.

She wasn't trying to reconnect with Walter. That ship had sailed. But when she thought about Walter, she thought about that longing for love she felt so sharply – with loneliness and yet with hope –

Then, in front of the television display, a wall of nearly 100 screens all apparently turned to different channels, she froze in place.

"The Super Bowl Champion New Orleans Saints began their training season today when –"

"President Obama and First Lady Michelle Obama welcomed the premier to the White House –"

"Ra ra ra-ah-ah-ah, roma roma ma, Gaga ooh la la –"

"Oscar-winning actress Sandra Bullock was photographed today with her secret baby—"

Betty stared. None of it quite made sense – and yet it did –

Temples pounding, she turned away from the odd displays to the one screen showing something familiar to her: an old black-and-white movie, one of the best.

"Casablanca"

"Play it, Sam," Ingrid Bergman said. "Play 'As Time Goes By.'"

The music began, and Betty felt all her other cares slip away as she listened to the words:

_You must remember this_

_A kiss is still a kiss_

_A sigh is still a sigh –_

Watching this movie. Curled up in her father's recliner. Her head resting on – on someone's shoulder –

_The fundamental things apply _

_As time goes by_

Dancing at a wedding. At – at Hilda's wedding. Daniel smiling down at her.

_And when two lovers woo_

_They still say I love you_

_On that you can rely _

Getting the job at the NEW YORK REVIEW OF BOOKS.

Justin coming out.

Papi's latest heart attack.

Daniel singing karaoke with her to "I Got You Babe."

Christina throwing back beers with her in London.

Marc's horrible mother and her furball cat.

Daniel begging for salsa lessons over the phone.

Wilhelmina drinking cheap beer out of plastic cups with her in the aftermath of her rejection by Jesse.

Amanda as the world's worst roommate.

Daniel telling her that she took his breath away.

Henry. Gio. Walter. Matt.

Daniel kissing her in that dark room as if it would be the very last time –

Betty gasped. Her eyes went wide, and she lost her grip on her purse, which spilled out everything at her feet right there in the aisle. She glanced down and yelped, "Golf socks!"

"Ma'am, are you all right?" said a Pro Buy clerk.

"No! I mean, yes! But – I've got to go!"

Betty crammed everything back in her bag as fast as she could and ran for the exit. Behind her, Dooley Wilson sang, "_The world will always welcome lovers –_ "

**oooooo**

"You shouldn't have pushed yourself for me!" she said into her cell as she bustled back into the Meade Publications building. Good God, Daniel had even gotten her a security pass. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"More than okay," her father insisted. "Just relieved to know you got the past four years back."

"Me too!" Justin called over the phone. "If there is one thing I don't want to relive, it was puberty. Not even for you, Aunt Betty."

She couldn't help laughing. "I'm gonna go back to my place tonight just to check on things, okay?" By now, Amanda might have turned it into a chinchilla farm or something. "But tomorrow night, let's celebrate, okay?"

"With empanadas, I think," Papi said.

"Dad—"

"Whole-wheat empanadas?"

"Let's talk about it tomorrow. Love you."

"Love you too. Welcome back to 2010, _mija_."

Family duty done, Betty impatiently counted off every second it took the elevator to reach the MODE floor. It was probably half an hour after most people left for the day, and even now, Daniel rarely stayed late when they weren't on deadline. The office seemed deserted – but no, the light from his office remained on.

Although she'd run the rest of the way, Betty found herself walking in slowly, almost tentatively. "Daniel?"

He looked up from the photos he was reviewing, red wax pencil in hand. "Betty. Hi. You know it's okay if you head home, right?"

She looked for the words, but none came, until she managed to say, "With Victoria Hartley – I was just so scared."

His eyes widened. "You remember?"

Nodding, Betty said, "Everything. Absolutely everything."

Daniel rose to his feet as she stepped deeper into the room, until only the desk separated them. "And you – you feel all right?"

"The headaches are gone." They were, too; the moment her past had returned to her, they'd vanished for good. "When she had that gun, and you went back out there, I was so frightened. I remember pretending like I was still that girl who first walked in here and thought picking cabbage out of coleslaw was the biggest problem I'd ever have. It seemed – safer."

The tension in the room was nerve-wracking and delicious at the same time. Daniel's eyes were filled with relief, even joy – but also uncertainty. "That's why – you think that's why you forgot everything since then? Because you wanted to escape to that time?"

"To a time when I didn't care so much about you. When the thought of something horrible happening to you wouldn't have scared me so badly – I could hardly breathe –" Her throat choked off her words, and she had to struggle not to start crying.

"You think that was it?" He gaped at her. "Betty, I thought – I thought you needed to remember what a jerk I was. To tell yourself not to fall for me."

"Way too late for that." Betty shook her head, now caught between laughter and tears. "I forgot because the thought of losing you was too terrible for me to take. … Well, that, and the fact that I got hit on the head. Really hard."

"Right." Daniel still hardly seemed to believe it, but she could see hope dawning on his face. "And reliving the time when I was a total jackass to you – that didn't make you, uh, reconsider?"

"Daniel, don't you see? I went back to the only time when I didn't care for you. I had to go back that far to find a moment when you weren't so important to me. If my feelings for you weren't as deep as they are – I would never have had to forget at all."

"Betty." His voice almost broke on the word. She could feel his eagerness as powerfully as her own.

Why was his desk so huge? Why did he seem like he was a thousand miles away. Betty wanted him nearer. She leaned across the desk, toward him. The distance between assistant and editor wasn't too great to bridge. Slowly, Daniel lowered his face to hers. He was close enough for her to feel the heat of his skin before she whispered, "Next time you ask me to the Brooklyn Bridge, I'll say yes."

Their lips met, and all the other tumult of emotions she felt faded away. No laughter, no tears, only joy. Only the taste of Daniel's mouth on hers, his hands cradling her face, as their second kiss turned into their third and fourth and tenth and too many to count.

**oooooo**

Half an hour after Betty's miraculous recovery, Daniel found himself on the chaise longue, cuddling her against him and wondering how he could go from total depression to complete happiness so quickly. It was like he'd taken the express elevator straight up.

"You wanted to sing karaoke again," Betty said, her voice hardly more than a murmur. Her hair was mussed now, more from his fingers than from whatever she'd done to it that morning. Their legs were tangled together, and her head lay on his chest. "That's kind of adorable."

"I thought you said your memory had returned." When she looked up at him, puzzled, Daniel added, "You must not remember how badly I sing."

And there was that warm, delicious Betty giggle he cherished. "You can sing to me anytime."

Daniel kissed her again for a few long, heady minutes. How long had it been since he'd just made outlike this? Kissing, touching, embracing, not as foreplay but from the sheer excitement of being so close to another person?

Though if it turned into foreplay, he wouldn't mind. At all.

As they broke apart, Betty seemed more serious. "Daniel – I'm so sorry I said that about your father, I didn't remember –"

"It's okay. I know you couldn't help it. Besides, it was almost nice … thinking of him like he was just a few feet away."

"And Sofia!" Betty covered her face with her hand. "I gushed at her in the elevator like I was still her number-one fan."

"I'm sure she didn't mind."

With a sigh, Betty took Daniel's hand in hers; he let it remain limp so she could turn it back and forth, like she even wanted to learn the angles of his wrist and fingers. "Soooo – I haven't had dinner yet – "

"Is this where we head back to the karaoke pizza parlor?"

"Or, you know, my place." Her gaze darted up to him, and that one moment of eye contact made him go hot all over. "To check on things."

"Oh, really?"

Betty's cheeks had turned an endearing shade of pink. "I'm not necessarily suggesting you should stay the night. But we could – be together. Get used to this really awesome new thing for us. You know? And just see what feels right."

"That would be amazing."

Daniel kissed her again – a brief touch before they parted to tidy themselves and head out – which turned into another ten minutes of passionate groping on the chaise. Finally, though, they managed to get up, get tucked and look halfway presentable.

As they walked out into the elevator bank, Betty said, "Oh, my God – Christina! You brought Christina all the way over here?"

"She was happy to come."

"I so need to do something special with her tomorrow." Her hand tightened around his in a way that made it clear she wanted him with her tomorrow, too.

_This is really happening_, Daniel thought. _Betty and I are really together. _

Just before he would have pushed the Down button, the elevator dinged and the doors opened – and a man walked out. For a moment, Daniel's brain supplied the name Alex. Not Alexis, Alex.

But no. Although this man bore an uncanny resemblance to Alexis before her transformation, he was someone else.

"At last," the newcomer said. "I informed security that I had an appointment with you, but I had to drop your assistant's name to be admitted."

Daniel shot Betty a confounded look – _I have an appointment? _– before remembering the crumpled, non-urgent note she'd left. "Sorry about that. Excuse me. It's … late." He'd just have to deal with the guy now, as quickly as possible. "And you are – "

The man smiled. It wasn't a nice smile.

"I'm Daniel Meade," he said. "The _real_ Daniel Meade."

Daniel could only stare. Then he glanced at Betty, who looked as startled as he felt. Then he turned back to the newcomer, still disbelieving.

Grinning even wider, the man asked, "Don't you want to know who_ you _are?"

EPISODE END

_Network announcement: "Ugly Betty Season Five: New York, New York" will be pre-empted for the next two weeks in order to present the special miniseries event, "The Author's Trip to Spain." Join us next time on "Ugly Betty Season Five" for "A Tale of Two Daniels."_

_(Songs: "A Rose Is Still A Rose," Aretha Franklin; "Breakout" by Swing Out Sister; "Higher," Creed)_

_Many thanks to TMadison for explaining the Document Manager!_


	18. A Tale of Two Daniels, Part One

A/N - sorry about the delay in updating! Real life got in the way. Returning to our saga now -

**oooooo**

Daniel rewound the last sixty seconds, played it over again in his head, and still none of it made sense. "Excuse me – did you say you were Daniel Meade?"

The blond man standing in front of him nodded. From her place at Daniel's side, Betty made a harrumphing sound. "Um, this is Daniel Meade. Right here. Ask anybody. Are we being Punk'd?" She glanced around, clearly looking for Ashton Kutcher. "Wait. Is that show even still on?"

"No camera crew will appear." The other guy stepped a little closer. "But I admit, I should've brought a camera. I'd like a picture of this moment. Because after a lifetime of knowing that I wasn't where I was meant to be, I've finally learned the truth._ I'm_ Daniel Meade. And, in case you were wondering, you are … Chad Pulaski of Ozarkville, Missouri. Feel free to adopt that name whenever you feel like it, but I'm ready to start being called Daniel. Past ready."

Chad the who of the where now? Daniel's patience – already strained by his eagerness to be alone with Betty for a while – snapped. "This is nonsense. I'm about to call security."

"Call them, please. I'll call the media and we can let the whole world know what I've learned."

When this Daniel – Chad – _Chaniel_, he decided – when Chaniel called Fashion TV, they'd be surrounded by cameras and paparazzi for days. Which meant even less chance to have some private time with Betty. Daniel forced himself to take a deep breath. "You have five minutes."

"We were born in the same hospital here in New York City, on the same day. Mr. and Mrs. Pulaski unwisely decided to take their big trip to the Big Apple far too close to her due date. Mr. and Mrs. Meade only allowed their child to go to the hospital nursery, like most newborn babies, but that was mistake enough. And some damn fool nurse made a switch she should never have made."

"How would you even know that?" Betty demanded. Her voice echoed in the empty MODE office.

Chaniel smiled bloodlessly at her. "My lifelong sense of alienation. The inescapable sense that I had no purpose living where I lived or following in my father's footsteps – and are you seriously going to say you never felt the same, oh other me?"

That … did not actually sound unfamiliar.

Even as the first qualm of uncertainty passed through Daniel's mind, Betty squeezed his hand and insisted, "Everyone feels that way sometimes. It doesn't prove anything."

Chaniel continued, "And then Mrs. Pulaski, formerly known to me as 'Mom,' needed a bone marrow transplant a few years ago, and my blood was tested. Turned out I'm not genetically related to the people who raised me as my parents."

"Okay, well, I guess that proves _something_," Betty admitted. "But – there's no way you can know you were switched with Daniel."

"Yeah, right." Daniel found his confidence returning. "I mean, it's New York City. There could have been hundreds of babies in that nursery!"

"That day? There were twelve babies born in that specific hospital. Seven were girls. That leaves five boys. One of those boys was born prematurely and rather severely underweight, and he was whisked to an incubator. No confusing him with the others. And the two others were African-American and Asian." Chaniel put his hands in his pockets and shrugged, even as his face settled into smug satisfaction. "That leaves you and me."

Daniel re-counted in his head. The math was solid. Which meant – which meant –

Uh-oh.

Betty put her hands on her hips. "This is probably all a big story you're making up for attention."

"The truth will out, Miss – who are you, anyway?"

Daniel's first impulse was to shout something like, _You can't be Daniel Meade if you don't know who Betty Suarez is_. It seemed obvious. "That's none of your business," he said instead. "You can't prove anything you're saying. People have lied to my family, about my family, plenty of times before now. I'll hand it to you – you're creative. But you're just wasting my time."

"I'm telling you the truth about yourself for the first time in your life, and you call it a waste." Chaniel cocked his head to one side, still maddeningly calm. "Why don't we take a blood test and see if those results match mine?"

From his jacket Chaniel withdrew a long grey envelope, which he waggled back and forth for just a moment before sliding it back into his pocket.

Though Daniel's heart had begun pounding, he told himself it was just anger, that and his eagerness to get back to Betty's apartment with her. "I don't need to take a blood test to know who I am. If you have some proof you're ready to share, share it. If not, don't come back until you do. Now get out."

Chaniel shrugged. "Until later." With that he turned back to the elevators; the one he'd stepped out of still lingered on their floor, so the doors opened right away. That was good; the alternative would have been seriously awkward.

As soon as they were alone again, Betty said, "That was completely bizarre."

"Totally."

"Even by Meade scandal standards!"

"I know, right?"

"But you handled it very well." She smiled so warmly up at him that his brain rewound back a whole half hour to remind him that Betty was back to herself, back with him, and that they were finally, at long last, together. "Nicely done, Mr. Meade."

"Thanks." Daniel slid his hands around her back. "Now what say we go back to our original plan for the evening and head to your place?"

Betty whispered, "That sounds amazing." The anticipation he heard there sent a little thrill coursing through him.

If only he didn't also feel lingering doubt …

**oooooo**

There was more than one way to feel at home, Betty decided.

One way was actually remembering yourself – the way you'd grown and changed, all the things you'd accomplished. That one most people took for granted, but after her days with amnesia, she never would again. It felt amazing just being back in her own skin.

Another way was being back at your own apartment for the first time in more than a week … and a week that had felt like almost four years. Just having her own furniture around her, the shine of her cheerful yellow paint on the walls, gave Betty a level of comfort she hadn't realized she'd missed.

And still another way – maybe the best way – was finally being alone with the guy you adored.

She and Daniel half-sat, half-lay on her little couch, wrapped around each other. His jacket was crumpled on the floor next to her discarded shoes and golf socks. She'd undone the top few buttons of his shirt, just enough to dip her hand inside and feel the broad expanse of his chest. So far, all her clothes were still on, but maybe not for much longer.

_He can really kiss_, she thought in a daze. _I mean, he ought to be good at it, he's had enough practice, but wow. _

Daniel cupped her face with one hand as his mouth slanted across hers, shallow now, so much so that their lips barely touched. He would do that – tease her for a moment, make her dizzy – before doing what he did now, crushing her to him and kissing her deep and wet.

As Betty wound her arms around his waist, she thought, _That is definitely years of practice at work. Or is it genetic? Maybe he was born an amazing kisser. _

_Maybe he was born – Chad Pulaski. _

When their lips broke apart, she blurted out, "You've never had any weird genetic tests done, right?"

"I'd stopped thinking about it!" Daniel flopped beside her, clearly less angry with her and more frustrated. "Mostly."

Why, oh, why, did her thoughts have to go there? "Sorry. It's just kind of – obsession-adjacent."

"Believe me, I know. How dare that guy show up and say anything so – so – "

"Stupid."

"Outrageous."

"Ridiculous!"

"Yeah, that's a good one. I like ridiculous." Daniel cuddled her against his shoulder; one of his hands rubbed the length of her arm, a gesture clearly intended to comfort them both. Although only one lamp burned in her apartment, she felt as if it weren't dark enough yet. It was hard to imagine them thinking about anything besides each other if they'd been lying together in the dark. "But if it's so ridiculous, why can't I get it out of my head?"

Betty smiled impishly up at him. "Maybe I haven't tried hard enough to distract you."

How she loved Daniel's lopsided grin. "Oh, you're pretty distracting."

"You haven't seen anything yet," she whispered as she drew his face back down to hers.

Their kisses were even more fevered as she urged him on, willing him to forget everything besides the fact that they were finally together. She kissed him hard enough to blot out the memory of any other person, any other moment. Betty pressed her body against his, and Daniel responded by sliding his hand up her side until he caressed her breast – just a touch, just a moment, but the first time he'd moved closer to foreplay. Heat broke over her like a wave, and she arched into the caress. Daniel's tongue dipped deeper into her mouth as he moved his hand down to her thigh and then pulled her leg up to curl against his waist. The hardness she felt against the curve of her leg made her heart nearly pound out of her chest.

_This is it_, Betty thought as she pulled the collar of his shirt further open. _Any minute now, we're going to the bed, and then we'll – _

"He just looked so much like Alex!" Daniel blurted out.

Sighing, Betty slumped back onto the sofa. "So much for distractions."

"I'm sorry." He flopped beside her, still breathing hard, but only looking up at the ceiling, as if the scene from earlier that night were projected onto it. "I was thinking that you and I are about to – and it's the first time for us – and I was like, I'm even more nervous than I was my real first time, which was with a girl who actually liked Alex instead of me, so I was thinking about Alex, and that's kind of when my brain went off-track."

It was enough to make a girl scream, or cry. But Betty managed to remain calm and face the fact that either their first night together was ruined … or that this wasn't their first night after all. That wasn't so bad, was it? She took his hand in both of hers. "It's all right. We're preoccupied."

"I'd rather be preoccupied with you."

"Same here, but – it's like I said before that con artist showed up. We don't have to do everything tonight." Betty snuggled next to him. "From now on, we have all the time in the world."

Daniel kissed the tip of her nose. "You couldn't be any more adorable."

She turned her mind to the problem at hand. If this weirdo was the latest obstacle between her and Daniel, that was all the more reason to knock him out of the way ASAP. "Why did Alex make you think about Chaniel?"

"They looked alike. A lot alike." He sighed. "And I thought that even before he said a word, so it's not just my imagination running away with me."

"Well, there are lots of tall blond guys in the world."

"With high cheekbones, and the same kind of jaw, and my dad's ears?"

"Sure. There was nothing weird about your father's ears."

"I guess not."

He didn't sound convinced. Betty knew that this doubt was only momentary; Daniel often tore himself up about little things even when he knew better. This distraction would linger until Chaniel's claims were finally disproved. "So, if he ever shows up again, we demand to see his proof. He won't have any. End of story."

"What if he tells the media?"

"That would suck," Betty admitted, "but it's not like they haven't gone crazy with fake stories about you before. A couple weeks ago, US WEEKLY said 'Danielope' was headed for the altar."

Daniel chuckled softly against her hair. "I guess I just wish we had a little time without a crisis. You know? It's been one thing after another ever since - since – "

"Since we met?"

"Good point."

She pushed herself to sit upright, the better to look down at him all rumpled on her couch; it was a sight she hoped to see a lot more often from now on. "We'll get through this. We always do."

"I know." He sat up next to her and ran one hand over his hair, which made him look only slightly less disheveled. "In fact, let's make a deal. Let's make a date."

"Oh, yeah?" Betty couldn't resist the grin spreading across her face.

"This weekend. I know you need to spend most of your time with your family, but we can grab one night, can't we? By then, this Chaniel person will be just one more nuisance we had to deal with. You'll be back at your job – the real one – "

_Oh, my God, everybody at the NYRB must think I'm a total flake._ She winced, but put it aside; she could start dealing with that tomorrow.

Daniel continued, "—and you and I should go out on the town."

Over her shoulder, she said, lightly, "You wouldn't rather stay in?"

"I'm liking this flirty side. We'll go out and have fun. Then come back in and have more fun." His voice was low and soft. "Once I've got my head back in the game. Sound good?"

"Sounds great," Betty murmured, lifting her face to his for another kiss.

**oooooo**

_I don't know where Daniel's head is today, but it's not in the game. _

Wilhelmina tapped her fingers impatiently on the light table. "Well? Do we go with the honeysuckle or the coral shade for the background?"

"I guess I'm not really seeing the difference."

Wilhelmina and Marc shared scandalized looks. Marc, who would have to count as the tactful one, cleared his throat. "Well, you see how the honeysuckle has more of an orange undertone?"

"I can see that the two colors aren't the same," Daniel huffed. "I just can't see that one is any better than the other. Do you feel like brothers always have a strong family resemblance?"

"Hmmm. Are we talking the brothers Jonas?" Marc asked.

"Can we focus here?" Wilhelmina snapped. This morning meeting had already gone on a solid twenty minutes longer than scheduled. Any more delays and she'd have to cut short her lunchtime pedicure and foot massage, which was unacceptable given the heights she was seeing on wedge boots for autumn. "Both shades are lovely, yes. But we have to figure out which one is less likely to appear on the newsstand this fall. We want to stand out from the pack, not sink into the background."

"Truer words were never spoken!" Although she knew Marc would have agreed with her at any time, his statement now had the extra emphasis that only a sling covered in silver sequins could provide.

Daniel shrugged. "The honeysuckle, I guess. That feels – fresh."

"I entirely agree." Wilhelmina began scooping proofs into a folder; normally this was the sort of task she kept Marc for, but even she could see that allowances had to be made after a gunshot injury. "Now that this is settled, why don't you have Betty fetch you some coffee, or Red Bull, or some kind of stimulant shot reserved for heart attack victims and Lance Armstrong? Because you're a zombie this morning, Daniel."

"Sorry, Wilhelmina. I'm – distracted." Daniel didn't even bother snarking back. Sometimes he seemed determined to take all the fun out of everything. "And by the way, Betty remembered everything last night. She's okay now. Thanks for playing along."

As Daniel wandered out, so out of it that she half expected him to walk into a wall, Marc said, "Can I just share how completely annoying it is that I missed Betty's Amnesia Extravaganza? I could have done the poncho costume_ again _for double impact! Chances like that come along once in a lifetime."

"What am I doing here, Marc?"

Marc studied Wilhelmina warily, which she felt was only appropriate. "You are – looking fabulous?"

"Not what I was looking for."

"Outshining that well-groomed imbecile, Daniel Meade!"

"Hardly a news flash."

"Very kindly handling my paper-shuffling duties until I regain use of all my limbs?"

"Never mind. There is no answer that would satisfy me. The fact is, I don't know what I'm doing here at MODE any longer. I haven't known for quite a while." Wilhelmina crossed her arms in front of her sea-green suit. The light from the meeting room windows glinted off her crystal earrings and Marc's shimmery sling. "When I surrendered my quest for control of MODE, I decided to move on to something else. To begin my ascent to bigger and better things. Then Connor returned to my life, and, well – "

"You've been spending less time thinking about the vertical, more time thinking about the horizontal," Marc finished. He pursed his lips as he considered this mental image. "Daniel's usually pretty good at covers, after years of learning from the master, of course. You don't suppose something's going on in Meadeland?"

"To hell with Meadeland." Her old scheming instincts twitched like Anna Wintour's eyelid at the sight of a designer knockoff, but Wilhelmina refused to acknowledge them. From now on, her goals were her own. "I've dicked around long enough. It's time to come up with the master plan, Marc."

"You mean ….?"

"Yes." Wilhelmina tossed her hair. "From this day forward, I'm developing Wilhelmina Slater: Phase Two."

Outside, thunder boomed.

"But – it's sunny – " Marc whispered as Wilhelmina strode back to her office.

**oooooo**

"I can't believe this weirdo phoned you," Daniel said, sinking back into his chair with a groan. "Don't panic, Mom."

"Panic? Daniel, don't be absurd. Remind me to tell you sometime about the sheer number of supposed illegitimate children and resurrected Fey Sommerses who've showed up over the years. For a while I considered putting in one of those take-a-number things at the back door of the mansion."

Her crisp humor crackled even over the phone, and Daniel couldn't help smiling a little. But the thought that Chaniel had already tracked down his mother was unnerving. Okay, the guy was only a con artist, but he was pretty freakin' committed. "What if he's dangerous, Mom? He could go totally stalker on us."

"Entirely possible, but he strikes me as one of the ones who wants a quick payout. Not a genuine loony. But you never know. After all, Renee Slater seemed totally normal … at first."

Daniel gave the phone receiver the look he would have directed at Claire if she'd been there. "Not cool, Mom."

"All right, all right. Can you blame me for being relieved that I won't be sharing my grandchildren with an Aunt Wilhelmina?"

This reminded Daniel that he hadn't shared the good news about his relationship with Betty yet, and his mom would definitely want to hear. Her happiness would be worth bearing every single second of high-powered I-Told-You-So that would be coming his way. Before he could start, though, his call waiting chimed. "That's Tyler on the other line. Hang on."

"If I find out later that it's Penelope Kerr, you're in for it."

Had he not even gotten around to telling her that Penelope was a lesbian? Shaking his head in disbelief, Daniel clicked over to the other line. "Tyler. What's up?"

"What's up is that I have some weirdo calling me claiming to be some other version of you," Tyler said. "Is this the kind of crap you have to deal with when you're rich?"

"Yes. Don't let him get to you, okay? It's just some con he's trying to pull."

"I figured. But why did he call me?"

That was a good question. Tyler was the newest member of the family, and not fully vested in most of the businesses they owned; a con man would have less to gain from him. On the other hand, maybe a con artist would assume that the newbie Meade would be the most likely to fall for any scheme. "What did he say to you?"

"That he wanted us to have a family meeting – tonight. Apparently he claims to have proof, though I'm not believing any evidence we don't test and confirm ourselves."

"You're not such a newbie after all, huh?"

"What?"

"Nothing. Listen, Tyler, Mom's on the other line, and I bet she's going to tell me about the meeting, too."

"So do we go ahead and get this over with?"

"Probably." It wasn't like he had plans for the evening anyway, Daniel thought; Betty had an overdue reunion with her family in Queens tonight, and his time would be better spent dealing with Chaniel for once and for all than lying around his apartment pining for her and probably spraining his wrist in the process. "We'll face him down together, as a family. Go out for a celebratory burger afterward. Sound good?"

"Definitely." Tyler's voice sounded hesitant, though. "Hey, Daniel?"

"Yeah?"

"Just for the record – even if this were – not that it is, of course, but – as far as I'm concerned, you're my brother. Period. Okay?"

"Okay. Thanks."

That reassurance should have made him feel better, but instead it opened up another chink where the doubt could get in.

Daniel clicked back over to his mother, who also wanted to set up the meeting that night, for much the same reasons Daniel himself thought it was a good idea. But he could hardly hear her, because the doubt was buzzing too loudly in his brain.

**oooooo**

Across the lunch table at Schnipper's, Christina's mouth had fallen slightly agape. It would have been funnier if they hadn't been splitting an order of tater tots, Betty decided; the unchewed stuff in Christina's mouth made it kind of gross. "Would you swallow already? Please. I'm trying to eat here."

"You and Daniel?" Christina's eyes narrowed. "A couple? For real? I can hardly believe it. Are you sure you're entirely recovered from that head injury? Have you gone from amnesia to hallucinations?"

Betty wadded up her paper napkin and threw it at her. "For real. Daniel and I have been building toward this for a while, and now, you know – we're together."

Christina laughed, mostly out of astonishment, but there was a bit of sincere happiness mixed in there as well. "Good God! I have to say, I should've seen it coming. Thought him flying me over here just to tend to your scrambled memory, business class no less, was a bit over the top even for a Meade."

"He overcompensates sometimes. But he's come through for me in so many ways the past few months. Especially right after Dad's heart attack. We've become closer than ever – and the romance kind of grew out of that. Though I think it's been building even longer than I first realized, actually." Betty popped another tater tot in her mouth with satisfaction.

"Daniel's general intelligence and manners have been on a sharp upward slope ever since he met you, I admit, but never did I dream they'd rise so high. Well, congratulations to you both. Now tell me, are the tabloids true? Is he really hung like a polo pony?"

"Christina!" Betty glanced around, hoping nobody in the crowded cafeteria-style restaurant had overheard. "We're right next to the _Times _building. Can you not speak so loud about, you know, gossip things?"

In a soft whisper, leaning over the table, Christina repeated, "Is he really hung like a polo pony?"

"You're terrible. First of all, I don't discuss anything that private, and second – well, I wouldn't know yet. We haven't, um, taken that last step."

"Whyever not? I should think that would be one pony you'd be in a hurry to ride."

"It's all still pretty new, and it's been one crazy crisis after another the past few weeks. But it won't be long." Blushing, she added, "Before he stays over, I mean. The two of us being together – that's going to last a long time."

"Well, well. My little Betty's twitterpated again." Christina folded her hands beneath her chin, in a gesture that should have been teasing – but the warm affection in her eyes took away any potential sting. "I'm sorry I've got to fly back tonight. It would be fun to hang out in Manhattan a while longer and watch the sparks fly, but if I know Stuart and William, there's not been a dish washed since I left, and new life forms are even now evolving in my sink."

"Tonight I'm going out to Queens," Betty said. "So you wouldn't be missing any sparks anyway."

"Queens? Betty, come on. You've got hot Meade manflesh waiting here for you. What are you going out to Queens for? There's no way your father's empanadas are _that_ good."

Betty had to laugh, but she protested, "I just spent days wandering around not remembering the past four years of my life, remember?"

"Like I could forget that red and purple combo from yesterday."

Making a face – and being inwardly glad of the turquoise sheath she wore today – Betty continued, "Anyway, I need to reconnect with my family after that. Papi in particular. This can't have been good for him, as fragile as his health has been." With a sigh, she added, "Besides, Daniel has more Meade family melodrama to deal with right now."

Christina frowned. "It's not ugly, is it? Sometimes it is, with them."

"Not this time." She tried to speak lightly, but a shadow of the previous night's frustration crept into her voice anyway. "It's just a con artist at work, that's all."

And that ought to have been the end of it, but Christina had become serious now. For a moment, they were no longer in a crowded restaurant where dozens of tired journalists and commuters ate comfort food like hot dogs and mac-and-cheese; Christina no longer had her suitcases beside the table as evidence that she was on her way to the airport. They were alone, as close as they had ever been, sharing something really important. "I know you care for him," Christina said. "And I know Daniel's become a good man. But I also know you need to take care of yourself first. Don't let all that Meade baggage drag you down. You're too good for all that."

"Nobody's dragging me down," Betty promised. "Least of all Daniel."

"Good." Christina nodded, and the solemn moment was broken with her wicked grin. "And you'll let me know about the polo pony business as soon as you've gotten a handle on it? So to speak."

"I threw my napkin at you too soon."

**oooooo**

_So that's why everybody makes such a big deal about sex_, Justin thought.

He lay in Austin's bed, languid and happy, feeling his boyfriend's head on his shoulders and watching the ceiling fan's blades make lazy circles overhead. His parents were both at work for hours to come, which meant they could even do this again if they wanted to. And Justin was pretty sure he wanted to.

"It's kind of like walking over a bridge," Austin said. His voice was very quiet. "And the bridge falls down behind you, so there's no going back again."

Justin rolled over to look at Austin. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Just – this means it's all real. You know?"

To Justin's mind, the reality was the best part of it. The proof dreams could come true – but come to think of it, that was a little scary in and of itself. Okay, your dreams could be turned into your real true life; well, then, what did you choose to dream about? The potential was dizzying.

He intended to say this to Austin, and had rolled over to do so, which was why he saw the horror in Austin's eyes when they both heard the front door open.

"Oh, shit." Austin shoved himself out of bed in a mad lunge for his jeans. Justin wasn't far behind. No, he wasn't ashamed of being gay or loving Austin or anything else, but letting your boyfriend's parents see you naked was the kind of thing you only did if you were on an MTV reality show.

They got their pants and shirts on before Austin's mother opened the door. Even as the knob turned, Justin threw Austin a triumphant look. _See, we made it. Nothing to be afraid of. You're safe while you're with me. _

But Austin was staring at the bed.

The unmade bed.

The really super rumpled bed that looked like it had just been used as a trampoline, which was not that far off the mark.

_So what? _Justin thought even as the door swung open. _Lots of guys don't make their beds – I mean, I care about my Ralph Lauren linens, but I have standards, and most guys my age don't. I bet Austin's the same way –_

-but Austin wasn't the same way. His mother made that bed up every morning, hospital corners on the sheets, so tight that Justin had joked whether she was in the army once upon a time or something –

"Austin?" Mrs. Starkey said as she took in the scene. "What's going on here?"

"Hi, Mom!" Austin's words came out all in a rush, so obviously panicked that Justin's heart hurt for him … even through his own panic. "Justin came by a couple minutes ago to hang out."

Mrs. Starkey, expression slightly blank, turned slowly to look at Justin. After due consideration, Justin decided to play this one as cool as possible. "Hey," he said, with half a shrug.

Austin, bouncing slightly on his heels the way he did when he got nervous, kept going. "Why are you home so early? Are you sick? If you need to lie down, you totally should."

No explanation for Mrs. Starkey's sudden appearance came. She said nothing.

It felt as if a thunderstorm were brewing right there in the room – clouds darkening light, distant thunder dimming sound. Justin felt as if his lunch was about to come back up. He kept looking from Mrs. Starkey to Austin and back again, at the silent conversation unfolding between them. Though neither mother nor son moved, it seemed as if they were farther apart each moment.

Justin had thought, before he came out, that he was afraid of what his mom would say. He knew she really loved him and that they'd be okay in the end – but what about before the end? How would they get there from here? Ultimately, of course, she'd been fine with it, just like the rest of his family.

He knew now though, nervous and agonized as he'd been, that he had never really been afraid of the worst. He'd never contemplated pure coldness, utter rejection, or even hate.

Only now, watching Mrs. Starkey and her son, did he realize that was truly possible – or that it could unfold before his eyes.

**oooooo**

After being given a clean bill of health by Dr. Spaceman ("You'll be right as rain in no time. Now, I'm off to my amateur taxidermy club! Say, seen any roadkill around?"), Betty found herself in Manhattan, in the middle of the afternoon, with nothing to do.

Which was as good an excuse as any to drop by MODE and see Daniel – not that she felt like she needed any excuse.

As Betty walked through the Tube toward the reception desk, she saw Amanda – still seated front and center – ignoring the ringing phones while she squinted down at her digital camera. To herself she muttered, "The Sleeping Tyler series just isn't as much fun as the Sleeping Betty. Less drooly."

"Amanda." Betty rapped on the desk. "I've changed my locks. So no more Sleeping Betty."

"Oh, hey, Betty." Amanda gave her the big smile reserved for small children, and she spoke very slowly. "This is a CA-MER-A. It makes pictures, like paintings, but the pictures tell the truth, at least until you Photoshop them. Some people believe the pictures steal your soul, and that is _totally true_."

Folding her arms, Betty said, "First, cameras came along way before 2006. Second, I have my memory back now."

Amanda frowned. "Then I don't get those earrings."

"What?" Betty couldn't resist putting her hand to her ear. What was wrong with orange dangles?

"If this little flashback has ended, then I need to get back to the glittering world of fashion styling." Amanda pushed back her rolling chair and walked away from the reception desk, phones still ringing. "I think Marc said they needed somebody to de-lint the tweeds."

"You can't just leave like that!" The protest was to no avail – and was probably pointless, Betty realized, given Amanda's laissez-faire attitude toward taking calls.

But somebody needed to know there was no longer anyone at reception. Somebody, say, such as the editor in chief.

The latest of Daniel's temp assistants was apparently running errands, which meant she was able to get all the way to his office door while he still looked down at the papers on his desk. "So," she said. "You're taking your time hiring a new assistant."

He looked up, and the dawning surprise and pleasure on his face made her feel deliciously gooey inside. "Some people are impossible to replace."

"Damn straight."

They crossed the room together, meeting in the middle for a kiss – quick, but one that set her skin tingling. Daniel held her hands against his chest as he said, "You didn't text me."

"I wanted to surprise you." She'd seen him this way hundreds of times – shirt sleeves rolled up, tie slightly loosened, a smear of red editor's pencil on one of his fingers – but it had never seemed as deliciously sexy to her before.

"The doctor's report was good?"

"Totally good."

"And you're okay at your job?"

"Yeah. I wanted to go in this afternoon, but Jackson insisted I take the day. Since he wants to see a draft of my new story ASAP, I can use a few hours to write, actually." Betty beamed up at Daniel. "But I had time to say hello."

"I needed to see this face." Daniel's fingers brushed her cheek. The tenderness of the gesture didn't distract her from the dark shadows beneath his eyes, or the tension in his frame. Probably he hadn't slept a wink last night. The whole fake-Daniel thing was still bothering him – and still shadowing their brand-new relationship.

But Betty knew it was most important to think of his feelings first. She took his hands in hers. "You look like a guy with Chaniel on his mind."

"Betty, he called Mom. And Tyler. He's demanding a 'family meeting' tonight. Mom says we should just get it over with, shoot the guy down at once, but – "

"But what? It sounds like a good plan to me."

Daniel shrugged. "He just seems so – sure."

"Don't let this guy play mind games with you, Daniel."

"I know I shouldn't," he said miserably. "But the thing with mind games is – they work on me. They just do. You could psych me out into believing I was, like, Swedish, or meant to be a ballroom dancing instructor, or anything. And I know this about myself, but they_ still_ work! I hate it."

"Well, then, it's for the best that you're doing the family meeting all together," Betty reasoned as she caressed his hand. "There's no way Chaniel can confuse you and your mother and Tyler at once. The three of you will face him down, and he'll slink away with his tail between his legs."

He gave her his best puppy-dog eyes, which were pretty amazing. Real puppy dogs would give in to that look. "Any chance you could be there too? Just for the first little while, I mean. You're better at this than anyone."

"What is 'this' in our scenario?"

Daniel thought about it for a second. "Either holding my hand or defeating evil."

"Not a bad skill set." They kissed again, briefly. Betty couldn't help glancing to one side to see whether they were being observed through the glass wall open to the whole office, but nobody seemed to be around; probably the latest batch of swag had just appeared in the Closet.

Should she do it? If the meeting was early enough, she could probably help Daniel face the guy down and still get to Queens in time for dinner. It would be satisfying to see the smirk wiped off this guy's face, particularly after he'd messed up their romantic mood the night before.

Yet Betty remembered Christina's advice. Getting dragged into Meade family drama often meant getting dragged down.

She said carefully, "I think it's important for me to be with my family tonight. And I think you sometimes need to remember how good you are at dealing with stuff without me there holding your hand."

He thought it over before saying, "Go home to your folks. We'll be okay."

"Are you sure?"

"It's important for me to be with my family tonight too," Daniel said, new assurance in his voice. "Like you said, we'll deal with this together. It'll bring us closer. And if I expected you to hold my hand every time things got crazy with my family, well, we'd never let go." He smiled a little as he leaned forward. "Even though that doesn't sound so bad."

She whispered, "You're my favorite Swedish ballroom dancing instructor ever."

They kissed again, even briefer than the last time, but that was enough to quicken her heartbeat. When they parted, she could see the eager flush on Daniel's face and knew he was as turned on as she was.

Although they let go of one another – she didn't intend for their first time to be on his desk, though that was a fun mental image for later – Daniel said, "How can it not be the weekend yet? How is this only Wednesday?"

"Maybe you can deal with this whole Chaniel thing tonight," Betty suggested. "Then tomorrow's Thursday, and you know what they say." In unison, they completed the rest: "Thursday is the new Friday."

They both laughed, and Daniel said, "You're on."

"I just hope it all gets straightened out – " Betty frowned as she realized Daniel's attention had wandered from her to something in the office outside. "What?"

"I think it's all going to get straightened out," he replied, a slow smile dawning.

Betty turned just in time to see Alexis Meade charge through the door wearing a white, skintight sheath and an expression of murderous rage. "Okay, where's this little jackal who's spreading lies about my brother?" Alexis said. "Because he needs to know that this family only has room for one bitch – and she's back."


	19. A Tale of Two Daniels, Part Two

"Alexis!" Daniel caught his sister in his arms, gladder to see her than he'd been since her return from the dead as a girl … and given that he'd actually been hitting on her then, this was better on pretty much every level, including the Freudian. "You didn't say anything about coming back to the States."

"That's because I only decided last night, when I was woken up by some idiot who thinks he's you and doesn't seem to care about the time zone differences between France and New York." Alexis might have stepped out of a beauty salon instead of a transatlantic flight; her hair and makeup were perfect. Not a smudge darkened her alabaster dress, and if age had dared change her appearance in the years since he'd seen her, she'd obviously spent the money to change it back. "So I chartered a flight first thing this morning. I wanted to be here when we shoot this guy down."

"See?" Betty's face was alight with that thing she did when she'd just been proven right, which was a whole lot cuter on her than it was on most people. "Family togetherness. It's your secret weapon."

"Not usually," Alexis said, "but it's what we've got to work with. Hi, Betty. I thought you weren't working here anymore. Did I get that wrong?"

"Nope. I was just saying hello. Good to see you, Alexis – but why don't I give you guys some time to chat?" Betty headed for the door; Daniel didn't like seeing Betty go, but it wasn't for long.

"I'll text you later," he promised.

"Okay," Betty said. "Or call. We'll talk. Bye." She gave him one of those amazing Betty smiles as she went, one of the ones that reminded him of the sun's rays shining through clouds. Daniel waved after her, and he knew his expression was so goofy that his sister would no doubt call him out on it.

But she was as distracted as he'd been earlier, so he got away with it. Alexis paced the length of his office, her size-12 Louboutins heavy on the carpet. "What is this guy's game, anyway? He can't think we're stupid enough to fall for this."

"It's a shakedown. That's all. Tonight he'll ask for money, and we'll figure out how to discredit him if he tries to talk to the media." Daniel said this with more confidence than before. His sister had often attempted to destroy him – but she was about to unleash her Daniel-destructive powers on the fake Daniel, and he couldn't wait to see the resulting bloodbath. Alexis! It was like having a secret weapon. Or secret ninja powers. He'd been thinking a lot about being a ninja lately. Maybe he should ask Betty about Tae Kwon Do. That train of thought swiftly derailed as he saw that Alexis hadn't come alone. "D.J.?"

"Daniel!" His nephew – almost a foot taller than he had been, sun-bronzed and more a young man than a child – flung himself into Daniel's arms. "We came to see you."

"About time." He gave D.J. a hug that involved lots of rocking back and forth. His heart ached a little, never forgetting the too-brief months when he'd believed this to be his son. "How long can you stay?"

"School is out, so, we can see. Grandmere and Grandpere don't mind."

"Speaking of grandparents, why don't you find your grandmother upstairs?" Daniel said. "She's going to be thrilled to see you."

"Do you think she will take me to Dave & Buster's again?" This had been D.J.'s single favorite about the United States, Daniel recalled.

"Worth a shot." He playfully swatted D.J. on the shoulder, sending him out the door and toward the HOT FLASH offices. Daniel sincerely hoped his nephew wouldn't walk into an editorial meeting on which sexual positions were best during face lift recovery; that had happened to Daniel once, and he was still slightly freaked by hearing his own mother utter the words "doggie style."

As D.J. loped off, Alexis murmured, "How do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"That." She pointed after D.J., her face wistful. "How is that so – _easy _for you?"

"It wasn't easy, at first."

"Well. We're way after 'at first,' and I'm just – I don't know." As she folded her arms across her chest, Alexis confessed, "It's like the only parent I know how to be is our dad. Which kind of leaves something to be desired, you know?"

Although Daniel had made his peace with his difficult memories of his father, he had to admit Alexis had a point. "You'll get the swing of it. He's a great kid."

"He is. I'm just not a great … mom-dad. See, there's not even a word for what I am."

"That's because the language is still catching up with trailblazers like you." Daniel didn't put his arm around Alexis, just stood beside her and nudged her with one shoulder. "And we'll be hanging out all summer, so you can watch the master in action."

She arched an eyebrow, but a small smile had reappeared on her face. "The master?"

"At Dave & Buster's whack-a-mole, anyway."

That made her laugh, and Daniel felt a new surge of confidence. Maybe this Chaniel thing was a blessing in disguise. His whole family was together again, for real, united as almost never before. He might get the entire summer with D.J., which would rock. And now his date with Betty was one day closer.

They'd beat this thing, Daniel decided. Together.

**oooooo**

At the salon, Wilhelmina and Marc sat side by side in pedicure chairs, their feet sealed in paraffin for maximum softness, while aromatherapy candles filled the air with lavender and Enya-wannabe music played. Normally she went to such appointments alone, but she decided Marc deserved a small treat for narrowly escaping death.

Besides, his good arm had escaped injury, which meant he could still take notes.

"All right," she said. "We've been brainstorming for half an hour. Show me the list."

Marc held up the scratch pad.

_Career options: _

_Fashion TV network personality_

_Ambassador to nation best known for resort life_

_Benevolent dictator_

_Feared dictator_

_Marriage into lesser European royalty_

"Well, they all have their advantages," she said, drumming her newly manicured nails on the padded arm of her chair. "But there are invariably certain barriers to entry."

"Fashion TV would have you in an instant –"

"That would put me in a position where I'd be lower in seniority than Suzuki St. Pierre." Wilhelmina would have wrinkled her nose in distaste if the Botox had allowed it. "Put that option behind glass with a sign that says 'break only in emergency.'"

"Okay, then, why lesser royalty?" Marc said. "Why not think big? Go Windsor? Prince Andrew's a bit skanky, but hey, that just makes it more likely you could keep Connor on the side."

"And be condemned to those freakish hats the English royals wear? Forget it." But really, Wilhelmina couldn't imagine romancing anyone else while Connor was in her life. Just because she'd finally remembered he wasn't her whole destiny didn't mean she now intended to leave him behind. "The dictatorships – tempting, and I do have the shoe closet to manage the full Imelda. But taking over a nation would probably involve actually living there, at least most of the time."

"Like you could ever abandon a co-op on the park," Marc scoffed, drawing an emphatic line through each of the dictator entries.

"What can I say? I'm a New York City girl." Could New York be brought under the power of a dictatorship? Mayor Bloomberg certainly seemed to think so. But that would involve also ruling over the Bronx, which was too déclassé to be borne.

Marc put one finger to the corner of his mouth, considering. "This ambassadorship thing seems doable. I mean, you _are_ a senator's daughter, and you always give generously to both presidential candidates just in case."

"Possibly." However, Wilhelmina had started to read between the lines at Wonkette – the rumors swirling about an upcoming ethics probe were beginning to hint more strongly about her father. Soon, his private concerns might become a very public mess, and the likelihood of her trading on his political capital would turn remote.

But if she acted fast, it might be possible. A simple post in some untroubled nation. Surely being the U.S. Ambassador to Bermuda couldn't be that time-consuming. The biggest diplomatic issue to deal with was probably whether to order a pina colada or a daiquiri at the beachside receptions.

And the thought of Connor wearing a swimsuit more often made her smile.

"You're really going to leave, aren't you?" Marc sounded wistful. "It's hard to imagine MODE without you. Or you without MODE."

"For me too," she admitted, wriggling her toes slightly within their waxy cocoon. "I'll forever believing that running MODE was my first, best destiny. But let's face it. Print is dying – and I am very much alive." Wilhelmina couldn't resist a smile. "Bye bye, Meade."

**oooooo**

"Okay. Game plan time." Alexis folded her arms as she called the family meeting to order. Daniel couldn't help noticing how – less than five hours since her plane's touchdown in New York – Alexis had already reclaimed the position of leader of the whole clan. It didn't bother him, though. In this situation, some pit-bull attitude was called for, and Alexis was definitely the pit bull of the family. (He saw himself as somewhere between Boston terrier and beagle.) "Our goal here is to put him on the defensive, immediately. He's got nothing, and he knows it. The trick is to show him that we know it too."

"I don't want him going to the press," Daniel said. "We've lived out every other drama in public. I'm tired of it."

With a stern look, Alexis said, "If you can't hack the tabloids anymore, Danny, maybe you should just pack it in for Ozarkburg or wherever it is this jerk is supposed to be from."

"Ozarkville," Daniel, Claire and Tyler all said in unison.

"Whatever." Alexis shrugged. "Come on. We eat tabloids for breakfast. It's what we do. You've dealt with worse than this, right?"

Daniel nodded, particularly remembering the entire Sofia Reyes fiasco. But he'd never relished those battles the way his sister and parents sometimes did. Now that Betty was entering his life, he felt a stronger urge than ever toward a normal, undisturbed, tabloid-free existence. In other words, an existence Betty would want to be a part of.

Was that maybe a very … Chad Pulaski point of view? He tried to banish the thought, without much success.

_Come on! Drama! That's what our family does! You know you love it._

He didn't, though.

"I understand Daniel's reluctance to have this turn into the latest Suzuki St. Pierre news flash," his mother said, one hand resting on his forearm. "And while Tyler's being too good to mention it, any publicity we attract right now runs the risk of revealing the identity of his father. When that hits – it's going to get even messier than it already is."

The mere thought of Victoria Hartley's upcoming sanity hearing made Daniel want to sink beneath the conference room table and hide. He wished for Betty; if she were by his side, bright and cheerful and determined, none of this would be getting to him the same way. But he needed to be a grown man about the situation. Deal with it himself. Maybe by hiding. _No._ He could do this.

All the same, he'd rather have been at Dave & Buster's with D.J. and Yoga. Even if Yoga probably could kick his ass at whack-a-mole.

Bang on cue, Chaniel walked into the meeting room, wearing Hugo Boss so well-tailored that Daniel looked down worriedly at his own limp cuffs. Alexis breathed in sharply, and Mom went very still; he knew they'd seen the same remarkable resemblance to Alex. Whether or not they'd felt any moment of doubt before, they did now. And just that one moment seemed to gape open as a well deep and dark enough for Daniel to fall into.

"I gave the name 'Chad Pulaski' at the door," Chaniel said. "Only way to get inside, of course. But as far as I'm concerned, I left it there. That one –" He pointed at Daniel. "—can pick it up on his way out."

"The only one on his way out is you," Alexis retorted. She was clearly ready to unload on the guy, and Daniel was more than ready to see it, but somebody else in the room was having a totally different reaction.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Tyler stood up from behind his desk. "I know you."

_It's just because he looks like Alex_, Daniel wanted to say – but that didn't make any sense. Tyler never met Alexis as Alex. So why was he staring at Chaniel the same way Daniel first had, like he'd seen a ghost?

Pointing at Chaniel, Tyler said, "He – this guy – he was at Horizons. In our group meetings. He never said much so I didn't recognize the voice, but – it's him."

"I'd been watching the family for a while," Chaniel said. "Wondering when it would be the right time to make my approach. When I heard about your little relapse, I decided a couple weeks at Horizons would do me good."

"You snake." Mom's hands were spread across the conference-room table as if she wanted to lunge across it. "You violated the privacy of a substance-abuse recovery group just to learn how to manipulate my family."

"I did what I had to do." Chaniel took a seat at the table – as if he were already a part of the Meade family. "Look at it this way – all those awkward secrets you would have had to tell me anyhow? I already know. I won't serve you a drink, Mrs. Meade – and let me know when you think 'Mom' would be appropriate."

She smiled back at him, not sweetly. "How about never?"

Daniel understood their outrage and could sympathize with it, but something else was tugging at him. Chaniel had been planning this intigue for a long time. He'd done whatever it took to make it happen, no matter how ruthless. And he's waited for the perfect moment to strike.

All of that was a very – Meade way to behave. Exactly what Dad would have done. Exactly what Alexis would have done. Even Mom could scheme on this level when she thought the occasion called for it. Tyler hadn't pulled anything like this yet, but he had held their mother at gunpoint one time, which suggested he had the ruthlessness gene, even if it was mostly dormant.

The only one in this room who lacked the ruthlessness gene was Daniel himself.

"So now you're threatening to blackmail us." Alexis remained standing, using every inch of her considerable height to loom over Chaniel. "Doesn't sound like a guy who's only looking for a family."

"I've never had much use for family," Chaniel said, as casually as if he were explaining that he didn't want sugar in his tea. "Money, on the other hand, I can use."

"It was only about money all along." Daniel didn't exactly feel relieved yet, but at least this was something concrete to deal with. "Why didn't you just blackmail us to begin with? Why go through this whole charade?"

"Because it's not a charade, _Chad_." Chaniel's eyes narrowed. "And blackmail isn't among my interests. Even if it were, do you have any idea how much of your dirty laundry is already public? The lot of you are almost blackmail-proof. I'm not interested in shaming you. I only want what's rightfully mine."

Mom, apparently determined to keep this civilized, poured them all glasses of water from the nearby pitcher – even Chaniel. "What, precisely, do you define as 'rightfully' yours?"

"I'm sure most of the legal documents involved in the family holdings list a 'Daniel Meade' as the owner of a considerable amount of wealth. Since that's me – "

"Get real," Tyler scoffed.

Chaniel gave Daniel an easy, infuriating smile. "I'm not suggesting we impoverish the imposter. Only fair to leave you a reasonable amount to get by on, and I suppose you might as well stay on at Meade, as I have no interest in the magazine industry. But I want what's mine. And I suspect a court will agree that it's mine, given who I really am."

"You talk and talk about who you really are," Alexis said, "but you haven't offered us any proof."

"My proof is a DNA test. It was easy enough to walk into Tyler's room at Horizons and pull a few hairs from his comb – and I wanted a maternal match, anyway, so you'd know I wasn't just some Bradford bastard." Chaniel glanced back at Daniel, cool and confident. "You saw the envelope, and if you'd been polite at the time, I'd have shown you the results right away. Your reaction – and this meeting – have convinced me to leave the papers in my hotel safe for the time being."

Alexis said, "No proof, no conversation. This meeting is done."

Chaniel merely shrugged as he took a sip of water. "I suspected as much. My lawyers will call about the time and place for our next meeting. And then – we'll see."

"You'll have skipped town by then," Tyler predicted.

"We'll see," Chaniel repeated as he rose and strolled out of the room.

Once he was out of earshot, Mom triumphantly seized his water glass around the stem. "Did you know you leave trace amounts of saliva on the lip of a glass? Enough for a DNA test?"

"Mom, you're brilliant!" Alexis laughed as Tyler hugged their mother, and Daniel forced himself to smile.

But, non-schemer though he was, something about that envelope was bothering him. Something his family's jubilation couldn't easily wipe away –

**oooooo**

"Do we have to stop here?" Connor muttered as they walked toward the Meade Publications building.

Wilhelmina sighed and patted his arm. "I left the bracelet that goes with these earrings in my desk. You wouldn't have me go out practically naked, would you?"

"I might, actually." His wolfish grin sent a thrill of anticipation through her. "Be the biggest treat the people of New York ever had."

She kissed him quickly, then wiped the smear of deep red lipstick from his mouth. "Wait here. I'll only be – a – minute – " Her voice trailed off as she glanced toward the Meade building, and next to her, she felt Connor tense as he glimpsed what she saw.

The whole Meade clan, complete with a newly returned Alexis, was coming out of the offices significantly after hours. And in Claire's hands was something plastic –

Wilhelmina whispered, "Is that an _evidence bag_?"

"No schemes," Connor said firmly. "That's what you wanted. What you made me promise. That means not asking crazy questions about what they're doing." Their eyes met, and for a long moment, they were silent. Then he added, more quietly, "Doesn't it?"

Was he probing how serious she was? Wondering whether she could be drawn back into their old intrigues? The desire for Meade Publications – and the desire to drag that family down – flickered inside her, like the yearning for a flattering piece of clothing that was no longer in style. God, how she sometimes missed asymmetrical belts …

A man who'd been loitering on the nearby corner turned to go, nearly walking into her and Connor in the process. "Excuse me," he said politely, looking from one to the other before heading on his way.

_My God – that man looks just like Alex Meade, pre-op version – _

"Let's go," Wilhelmina said quickly as she took Connor's arm once more. "Forget the bracelet. Forget all of it."

"Willie – "

"Forget it," she repeated. But her heartbeat pounded the entire way to the restaurant, and not only from the excitement of having Connor near.

**oooooo**

Betty had envisioned her family homecoming celebration as a gentle, sweet evening. She'd do the cooking so Papi could finally sit down and relax the way he needed to. Justin and Austin would be there, all gooey with young love, which would probably make her look a little less gooey by comparison. After letting Hilda share some more gushing stories about how wonderful marriage was, Betty would finally get a chance to tell her sister about her new relationship with Daniel. Everything would be perfect.

"Dad, if I hear one more pan rattle in that kitchen, I'm coming in there!" Hilda shouted.

"I'm making empanadas, and nobody's going to stop me!" Their father replied. "You can't keep a man out of his kitchen forever. It's inhuman!"

Although Betty wanted to rush in there and stop him, she was too distracted by what Hilda had just confided in her – which was not gushing about marriage. "Bobby's in the Mob? Oh, my God, Hilda!"

"Not_ in_ the Mob. Just kind of … partnered with them. I guess. The way Herbalife was partnered with that company that sold the weight-loss bracelets on TV. Until it turned out the bracelets chafed people's skin off." Hilda curled her feet under her on the sofa, hugging herself despite the heat of the summer evening. "And now I think we're out of it, but I don't know for sure. Cousin Eddie swears that last drop off we did together is the last time."

"Cousin Eddie? The guy who ate most of the wedding cake?" Betty replayed what Hilda had just said and gasped. "Wait, the drop off you did together? You did something for the mafia?"

Hilda bit her lower lip. "It was something we could do together as a couple?"

"That was not a smart move! The cops could arrest you!" Betty looked out the window, half afraid squad cars would come screeching up at any moment to release policemen brandishing guns, but saw someone very different. "Well, thank goodness. Justin's finally here."

Hilda bounced up in a second, either in maternal eagerness or her desire to escape the scolding Betty was giving her. "Where have you been, kiddo? You haven't texted me in hours. I was starting to think you ran off and joined the circus." But as she opened the door and Justin came in – head hung low, clearly distraught – Hilda gasped. "Oh, baby, what's the matter?"

"Austin's mom found out about us," Justin said. His voice was thick and ragged; Betty realized he'd been crying. "She didn't even know he was gay. Now she hates him and she hates me, and Austin's run off, and I don't know where he is. Mom, he's upset. He shouldn't be alone, and I don't know what to do."

"Oh, baby." Hilda wrapped Justin in her arms, and Betty did the same. "Are you okay?"

Justin just nodded as they sat down. From the kitchen, Papi called, "How many more empanadas am I making?"

"None, because I'm not hungry, Austin's not here and you need to eat your wheat crackers," Justin called. He slumped backwards on the sofa, and Betty was startled to see how much older he looked – as if this day alone had changed him from a boy to a young man.

She took his hand. "Austin will call you when he's ready. I'm sure."

"I don't know, Aunt Betty. He could do something desperate." That was a phrase he could only have picked up from a soap opera, Betty thought, but she didn't doubt Justin meant it. "His mother – she was so horrible. She said we were evil and sick."

"That bitch!" Hilda put her hands on her hips. "What kind of a mom acts like that?"

"She threw us both out of the house. She told Austin not to come back until he was 'ready to stop this.' Which means to stop existing, basically. I wanted Austin to come here with me, but he wouldn't. We rode into Manhattan on the train but then he got out at Times Square without me. I tried to follow him, but it was rush hour. He got lost in the crowd." Justin's dark eyes welled with tears. "He's not answering his phone. I'm so freaked."

"Maybe he just needs some time," Betty said, though she felt a tremor of real fear. That poor kid. "You know that when he calms down, he'll come straight here. Austin knows he has a home with us if he needs it."

Hilda was pacing back and forth now. "How did she find out, anyway? Did she go through his text messages or something?"

"She walked in on us just after – " Justin's voice trailed off. Much more quietly, he said, "In his room."

Hilda straightened, her eyes widening. "Wait a second. Wait a second. Are you telling me – my baby's had sex?"

"Oh, God, my ears." Justin clapped his hands over them. "Can we not have this conversation now?"

"Maybe this isn't the time," Betty agreed, cheeks burning with embarrassment for her nephew.

"This isn't the time for a mere child to be having sex!" Hilda insisted.

Justin shot back, "You were only one year older than me when you got pregnant!"

_And she didn't get pregnant her first time_, Betty thought – since she and Hilda shared a bedroom wall, she had been far too informed about her sister's love life at a very early age. But she doubted either Justin or Hilda would welcome the details at this point.

"Oh, Jesus, hear him." Hilda turned her eyes to the ceiling. "You think my example is such a great example? Dad could hardly take it back then! Now? You're going to kill your grandfather!"

"Empanadas won't kill me!" Papi called from the kitchen, mercifully overhearing only that sliver of the conversation.

"News flash: pregnancy is not something we have to worry about in my situation, okay?" Justin groaned as he put his face in his hands.

Hilda paused mid-lecture, one long acrylic nail to her lips. "Oh, that's a good point. That goes in the 'pro' column for sure. I gotta mention that to Mrs. Starkey after I get done pounding her in the face."

Betty's cell phone went off, and she looked down to see Daniel's face next to the incoming number. "I'm going to take this, okay? I'll be right back, Justin."

"We're all right," he said. Tired and sad as he was, his smile up at his mother was gentle. "I don't think she's going to physically hurt me."

"Don't count on it, buster." But Hilda sat beside her son and wrapped him in her arms.

Betty took the phone to the front steps. As she shut the door behind her, she said, "How did it go?"

"Not awful. Not good, but not awful." Daniel spoke too quickly, the way he did when he was trying to move past a difficult subject. "Enough about my family craziness for a while, though. How are you?"

He was trying so hard not to drag her down in the drama – exactly the thing she'd been worried about him doing earlier today – but now Betty could see just how ridiculous they'd both been. The past few minutes had reminded her that the Suarezes had their own huge amounts of drama; yeah, it wasn't on quite as grand a scale as the Meade stuff, but it was just as wild, just as crazy and just as inescapable.

Caring about someone meant caring about their crazy, sometimes. If Daniel had proved capable of dealing with her family's insanity – and he had – then she'd just have to do the same.

"No rushing past the subject," Betty said gently. "Tell me about it, Daniel. I want to know."

Daniel sighed. "It went like you'd expect. He wants money, Alexis told him to stuff it, and Mom sneaked a DNA sample. She can send it off for testing tomorrow."

"That's great!" She hesitated. "You don't sound like it's great."

"There's just one thing. Chaniel didn't bring that envelope he showed off to us. He says it's DNA results of his own test – he sneaked into Tyler's rehab and got a hair sample."

"Cold."

"Just like Dad," Daniel said roughly. "Anyway, Chaniel didn't show it to the family tonight."

Betty shrugged as she sat on the stairs. "No wonder. It's fake."

"Think about it, Betty. If it's fake, why didn't he show it to us? You only make a fake document to show it to people, to try and get them to believe you. If you hold something back, it's because you think it's valuable. The only way that document is valuable is if it's real."

That made a scary amount of sense. But there were other, more rational explanations. "Or he doesn't even have a fake document. I bet it's just some junk mail he got. An offer for a credit card."

"Maybe." Daniel sounded even more glum than before. "I just can't shake it. Mom can't even send the test until tomorrow, which means we'd find out Saturday at the earliest. Until then, I'm going to be insane. I wanted to warn you. Tomorrow night's date – we're going out, okay? And we're going to have fun. But I'm still going to be insane about it. You deserve better, I know. I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing. We all have drama to deal with sometimes. The point is to deal with it head-on." A slow smile spread across Betty's face. "Did I ever tell you – I kind of have a catburglar fantasy?"

He was silent for a moment before saying, "This conversation is definitely taking a turn for the better."

"There was some old movie or show I watched on TV as a kid that always stuck with me. The man and woman had to sneak in somewhere to steal something together, and they were both wearing black and tiptoeing around, and you just knew they wanted so badly to make out but they had to wait until the heist was over. And of course there was the danger of getting caught. Very sexy."

"So, are we going to try this tomorrow night?"

"Uh-huh."

Daniel chuckled softly. "Okay, that might keep me from being distracted. Wow, Betty. I never figured – fantasy role-play – this is going to be hot, isn't it?"

"This isn't a fantasy, Daniel. This is reality."

"Huh?"

"Don't get me wrong. Let's do the fantasy thing sometime." She glanced around, afraid to be overheard – because she was now talking about breaking the law. "But tomorrow night, we're doing this for real. We're finding that envelope of Chaniel's, and we're stealing it. Together."

**oooooo**

Justin managed to get through the sex talk with his mother only because he was able to convince her not to put a condom on a banana.

The rest of the night was one long blur to him: Grandpa insisting on nibbling half an empanada, Elena taking the other half from him and holding it over his head until sauce dripped out on them both, Mom staring at Justin like she could see loss of virginity on his face like a zit, and Aunt Betty trying to make cheerful neutral conversation about topics everybody could enjoy, such as Lady Gaga.

All he could really hear was the sound of Mrs. Starkey's voice: _What have you done to my boy? What have you made him do?_

She was talking about being gay, like it was something that happened because of peer pressure. But the words still stung, because to Justin it had become a totally different accusation. Austin had tried to stay in the closet. He'd always been more hesitant, more cautious. Justin had always acted like that was a personal rejection. Now he could see that Austin's fears had been based in real knowledge of just how sucky his parents could be.

Now his boyfriend was wandering around New York City on a hot, sticky night with nowhere to go.

_He could go home_, Justin thought. _He could go home if he told his mother he was sorry, that he'd never do it again, that he'll go to one of those weirdo camps that supposedly teach you not to be gay, where he'll definitely meet someone else. _

Promising never to see Justin again would definitely be part of the deal Austin would have to strike to return to his family.

It was so hard to pull it apart, the selfishness and the love. On the one hand, Justin was desperate to keep Austin with him – the first guy he'd ever kissed, ever been with, the only guy he ever wanted. On the other, he knew that couldn't be his main concern. If Austin went back home and started trying to be something he wasn't, it would mess him up for a long time – maybe forever. That was way worse than any breakup could ever be.

By the time Bobby got home, it was late enough that Grandpa, Elena and Aunt Betty were already in bed. Mom, thankfully, told Bobby about the whole thing without mentioning the sex, at least not in front of Justin; probably Bobby would be drafted to do the banana-condom thing later, which Justin felt like he could handle on any other day but this one.

And tonight, they gave him some space to be alone.

He sat on the back stoop well into the early hours, hands on his knees, waiting in vain. Sometimes Justin cried; sometimes he came close to falling asleep right there, with his head on his forearms. But he stayed out there, waiting.

Even if Austin didn't come here tonight or ever again, he deserved to have someone in the world waiting for him to come home, no matter what.

As a faraway car alarm bleated through its pattern of sirens, Justin put his head down once more. It felt like his skull weighed a thousand pounds, like it was that diamond-encrusted one Jeff Koons made that time. Tomorrow he'd been planning on checking out the latest photography exhibit at the Met – with Austin – but it now seemed unlikely that he'd be doing anything besides trying to sleep. Maybe he'd get lucky and Grandpa wouldn't wake him up with his stories …

"Hey."

Justin looked up, startled, to see Austin standing in front of him. Austin's hair was straggly, his face tear-streaked. His clothes looked as rumpled and badly tucked as they had this morning when they'd been caught. And yet he'd never looked more beautiful.

"Oh, my God," Justin said. "I'm so glad to see you."

Austin opened his mouth, couldn't get words out, and shrugged. Finally he managed to say, voice tremulous, "I don't know who my family is anymore."

"We're right here." Justin held out his hand. When Austin took it, Justin led him inside and upstairs to his room – just to sleep, though Mom probably wouldn't believe that in the morning. But when she gave them hell about it, she'd do it with love, and that would make the whole difference.

All that mattered was that Austin had come home.

**oooooo**

It was easy enough to find Chaniel's hotel; you could Google how to do a reverse trace on a phone number, and he'd left a contact number with the security desk.

Betty was relieved, also, to learn that his room was only on the third floor. Catburglar fantasies were all very hot, but plummeting several stories down to her death was decidedly un-hot.

Daniel managed to get them the room directly above Chaniel's by bribing the guests there with a luxury penthouse suite, courtesy of Meade Publications.

Which meant the best date ever was definitely on.

"It's kind of hot for black turtlenecks," Daniel said inside the hotel room bathroom, where he was changing. They were closer now – hopefully soon to be as close as two people could be – but Betty didn't want his first sight of her undressed to be the image of her wriggling into black yoga pants. "Are you sure we couldn't try it with black T-shirts?"

"We have to have black all over!" she insisted. "Otherwise we'll show up on security cameras."

"If there even are security cameras, we'll show up anyway." The door muffled his voice.

"That's not how the fantasy goes, okay?" Betty pulled her long hair out of her turtleneck and grabbed her glasses from the bedside table. "Ready!"

As Daniel stepped out, he said, "You know, all you had to say was fantasy."

How did he make even a black turtleneck look good? His dark clothes hugged every line of his sculpted body, and the rogueish light in his eyes not only fit the fantasy perfectly but also made her aware that it was way, way too hot for turtlenecks. Really too hot even for clothes.

He leaned across the bed and kissed her – only a touch – but she caught his face in her hands and brought him in for a longer, deeper kiss. Daniel braced his arms on either side of her, leaning her back until she was off-balance, clinging to his shoulders. Maybe she should let go, so they'd fall back onto the bed together …

When they parted, Daniel whispered, "Are you sure we can't skip the breaking-in part of the evening?"

"Positive." Oh, God, she was already panting. Betty tried to collect herself. "I want your full attention."

"You have it."

"Until the next time we think about Chaniel. And he's interfered with us for the last time." Determined, Betty pushed Daniel back from her – just forceful enough to be playful – and relished the grin he gave her. Oh, when they finally worked all this out, they were going to have incredible fun. "All right. Let's do this. Are you sure he's out?"

"I asked Alexis to invite him for drinks. There's no way he'd skip a chance to get to her – and, of course, he won't get to her, because it's Alexis. But Chaniel's definitely gone for the next couple of hours."

Which gave them ample opportunity to break in, get the paper, prove Chaniel was a liar and return to this room with plenty of time to fulfill her catburglar fantasy in every erotic detail. Excited, Betty went to the window, pushed it open and stared downward.

And kept staring.

"Betty?" Daniel came up behind her. "Are you freaking out about breaking the law? I still kind of can't believe you suggested it."

"It's morally and legally appropriate to commit a small crime to stop someone else from committing a larger one," she insisted. "But – it's just – "

"What?"

"The third floor is higher than it looks from the ground," she said in a small voice.

"Uh. Yeah. It kind of is." Daniel put one hand to his chin. "Hmmm."

"You brought the rope ladder, right?"

"Yeah. Well, it's a chain ladder – like an emergency fire escape kind of thing? But it should work." Daniel pointed at the black duffel he'd carried along. "Says it can hold up to 400 pounds. So we're solid."

"Of course."

"Right."

They both looked out the window again, then pulled back at the same moment. Betty sighed. "Oh, my God, we're the most chicken catburglars ever."

"I've got an idea. Let's go to the bed."

"That's – so hot, but it's not the kind of idea that's going to help us right now."

Daniel laughed. "No, no. I mean – let's get the mattress."

The hotel mattress was incredibly heavy, and barely fit through the window, but they kept at it, working hard, shoving with their whole bodies side by side. "How – are we – going to get this – back in the room?" Betty gasped.

"We aren't." Daniel threw himself against it hard enough to move the mattress a few more inches.

"They'll make us pay for it!"

"That's the part of the plan that works because I'm rich," Daniel said, giving the mattress one more shove that finally sent it tumbling to the ground.

They peered out the window to see that the mattress had indeed landed not far beneath them – close enough to cushion a fall if they took one. Betty brushed her now-sweaty hair back from her face. "Okay. Let's do this thing."

The chain ladder proved to clank loudly, but a fire engine came by, sirens wailing, at just the right moment to cover it. Daniel insisted on going down first. "That way I could catch you if something went wrong," he said.

"Or if the ladder's defective, you'll take the fall." Betty smiled at him. "You're so brave."

"I – hadn't actually thought of the falling thing."

They were quiet together for a moment, until she said, "I'm sure it's fine."

Although Daniel didn't seem totally convinced, he started down the ladder. It held. He made his way down one story and pushed at the window – which, happily, proved not to be locked. Chaniel must have been eager for some cool breezes of his own earlier in the evening.

Weird, to think of him wanting something normal and natural, not evil. He couldn't be totally evil, could he? Yes, it was awful what he was doing to Daniel and his family, but it wasn't like Chaniel was a serial killer, Betty reasoned.

Then she thought, _that we know of. Oh, my God. What if Daniel's going into the lair of a serial killer? _

Too late: Daniel called, "I'm in!"

"Not so loud!" she hissed.

"Sorry!" His voice was a stage whisper now. She could see his hands outstretched next to the chain ladder as it wavered slightly in the breeze. Beneath – still too far away – were the dirty back alley and the abandoned mattress. "Come on, Betty. I've got you."

And that was all she had to hear. Betty took a deep breath and started down the ladder. It was shaky work at first, but within a few steps, she was close enough to Daniel for him to rest one reassuring hand against her calf. That made it easy to go the rest of the distance and get one arm around his neck so that he could tow her inside.

They tumbled back into Chaniel's room together, flopping onto his bed. In that one moment, as they lay side by side in the dark, breathing hard from exertion, catburglar clothes on, Betty felt the line between fantasy and reality blur. This was a whole lot more awkward and dangerous than her dream had always been – but it was still incredibly hot.

"You make a handsome catburglar, Mr. Meade," she whispered.

"And you make a very sexy thief." Daniel leaned his face closer to hers – then paused. "Distractions. Bad during criminal activity."

"Yes. Right. Let's go."

Immediately they started searching the room. As Betty had suspected, Chaniel hadn't left anything as important as that fake note out on the desk. Daniel said, "What if he took it with him, to show Alexis?"

"Alexis would just rip it up," Betty said. "He wouldn't take it along. Bet you anything it's in there." With that, she pointed at the safe in the closet.

Daniel gave the safe's door a quick tug; sure enough, it was in use and locked. "So how do we get in? I didn't bring a welder's torch."

She gave him a loving, exasperated look. "We use the combination, silly."

"But what's the combination?"

"What does everybody use?" Betty folded her arms in satisfaction. "Their birthday."

"We don't know – oh, wait! We do!" Daniel leaned forward and punched in the digits of his own birthday; sure enough, the red sign on the door read OPENING.

As the gears whirred, Betty realized they'd have been out of luck if Chaniel had been lying about that part of the story – but then, maybe he was using his supposed birthday even here. To remind himself, so he wouldn't slip up on the details.

Daniel opened the door and grinned in triumph as he pulled out the gray envelope. "Bingo."

"Yes! We did it! We're the best catburglars ever!" Betty started to clap her hands together before realizing that wasn't exactly stealthy behavior. As Daniel ripped the sheet out the envelope and started to read, she leaned against his shoulder. "So, what is it? An ad from LADIES HOME JOURNAL?"

"It's – it looks like – an actual DNA test. I mean, not that I know what one of those looks like, but there's a whole lot of numbers and graphs and stuff –" His voice choked off.

Betty looked up at him, fear dawning inside. "Daniel? What does it say?"

He looked at her, stricken. "It says – it says he's telling the truth."

END

_Tune in next time for "Show Me." _

_(Songs From This Episode: "Destiny," Zero 7; "Espionage," Los Straitjackets; "Together," The Kin)_


	20. Show Me, Part One

Daniel didn't know a whole lot about science. He'd skated through the Harvard requirements by taking a bunch of geology courses, but his day-to-day life rarely asked him to distinguish sedimentary rocks from igneous. Certainly he'd never before attempted to analyze a DNA test.

It didn't take a whole lot of expertise to figure out what "Probability of match: 99.89%" meant.

"Daniel?" Betty's soft hand against his arm brought him back, unwillingly, to the here and now. "This could be a fake. It has to be."

"If it's a fake, why did he hide it from us?"

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Even his Betty – who seemed to have the right answers for everything – couldn't solve this one for him.

Finally she said, "Let's take a picture of it. You put your phone in your back pocket, right?"

"Yeah, but – why a picture?"

"Well, we can't take it with us," Betty rationalized. "Then he'll know we were in here."

For the first time in what felt like years, Daniel remembered that he'd just broken into Chaniel's hotel room, which was probably illegal even if they didn't take anything out of it. Alexis was keeping Chaniel busy across town at the Algonquin, but he'd come back eventually. By that time, they needed to be out of there and to have left no traces behind. Daniel couldn't have cared less about getting caught – it was tough to care about much of anything, at the moment, besides the sheet of paper in his hands. But he remained enough himself to realize that Betty couldn't be mixed up in this any more than she already was.

"We don't need a picture," he said. "If it's fake – "

"It is!"

"—nobody would be able to prove that from a photo. Let's just put it back."

Daniel tried to fold the sheet neatly the way it had been, but he realized his hands were shaking too much. Tenderly Betty folded her fingers around his; their eyes met, and it seemed to him that she was the only thing in his whole world that hadn't just been turned inside out and made horrible. He gave the paper to her and steadied his hands against her shoulders as she put it back in its envelope and closed the safe.

Briefly he was distracted from the roaring panic in his brain while he and Betty discussed how best to go back up the chain ladder dangling outside the window, but then Betty realized they could just go out through the front door, return to their own room via the elevator and then haul the ladder back up behind them. This definitely beat hanging his ass from the outside of the building one more time.

Once they were again alone in their room, chain ladder folded away in its little sack, Daniel sat heavily on the edge of the bed. His legs felt watery, and his stomach was strongly considering rejecting his dinner.

Betty snuggled beside him, and he leaned into her embrace. "We should probably leave soon," she said. "We don't want Chaniel to see us walking through the lobby."

He gave her a rueful smile. "I know this isn't how you always wanted your catburglar fantasy to end."

"Hey. Fantasy is all well and good, but this is reality, okay? And I want to be here for you." Her thumb stroked along his arm. "Seriously, I still think this is probably nothing but – as of now, I get why you're so freaked out."

She looked so beautiful in her black outfit, her full lips pursed in a worried frown. Daniel dipped his face to hers for a brief kiss, but no more. "I wish it had been something obviously fake. Not only because it would have put my mind at ease, but we'd also be doing a lot of celebrating tonight."

"We'll celebrate soon." Betty nuzzled her lips against his throat. "All night. When it's time, and you feel like it."

As if he didn't feel like it. The way she looked now – eyes bright and cheeks rosy from descending the ladder, shining hair beautifully mussed from their race down the hallway – that would put any man in the mood. Daniel could imagine it too well: pushing her back down on the bed, peeling off those tight black clothes and making love to her all night long. Drowning himself in her, losing every uncertainty in the pure sensation of their bodies together. Just envisioning it tested his resolve and brought him that close to tackling her, this second.

But he didn't want his first night with Betty to be about forgetting something else.

They kissed again, sweet and soft. Then Betty turned businesslike, the way she often did when she thought he was in danger of wallowing in his own depression. "Okay. Let's clear out. I'll change in the bathroom this time, and then we'll go do something. A movie, maybe. Anything to get your mind off this until we can do something constructive about it."

"Save the catburglar outfit," he said. "For later."

She grinned, and he saw another flash of how different this night could have been – how completely he could have fulfilled her catburglar role-playing for her, and just how much fun they would have had in the process.

But that was only fantasy. This hollowed-out feeling that put a barrier between him and everything in the world, even Betty – this was his new reality.

**oooooo**

"I know the Algonquin's kind of old school," Alexis said, "but that's why I like it."

It was the sort of place Dad used to bring her for drinks, back when she was a he, and in truth, she didn't care for it much at all. Sure, it was beautiful – thirty-foot ceilings, heavy woodwork, Chinese silk wallpapers, and thick overstuffed chairs and sofas to embrace the guests as they sipped their $20 cocktails. The place even came complete with a fluffy Persian cat, Matilda, who strolled imperiously through the revelers, acknowledging them only with a flick of her tail.

But it would always remind Alexis of her father, and the fraught silences between them during the era when Dad still thought he could keep her from her true self. So she could never love this place like it deserved.

No reason to share all that with Chaniel, though.

Chaniel, for his part, seemed well-pleased with his surroundings. "Old school suits me just fine. I'd think you were a more modern kind of girl. Seeing as how you are, in fact, a girl these days."

How much had this viper learned about them from Tyler's therapy sessions? Alexis hated not knowing. It was like trying to play poker when you suspected the guy across the table had gotten a peek at your hand.

Smoothly, Chaniel continued, "Where's your son tonight?"

"With his grandmother." Should she have said, _with Daniel_? To provide better cover for her little brother's bizarre espionage mission? Personally Alexis thought it was a stupid errand, but she couldn't blame Daniel for wanting to strike back at this jerk.

"He lives with his grandparents most of the time, doesn't he? His maternal grandparents, I mean. Or is that a faux pas? I suppose D.J. is in the rare position of having only maternal grandparents. At any rate, I look forward to finally being an uncle."

"You're not his uncle." _D.J. doesn't belong to you_, she wanted to add. But that felt like a weak argument, because it was hard sometimes to even feel as if he belonged to her. Although they were forging a friendship, she still felt nothing like D.J.'s parent … and she knew that the one D.J. truly loved that way was Daniel.

In other words, Chaniel was trying to take away the only father her son had.

Chaniel said, "You've got a bit of a competitive streak, don't you?"

Alexis could hardly resist laughing. "Are you trying to impress me with how insightful you are? Please. Anybody who's been within 100 yards of me knows that. As if my being captain of the Harvard track team wasn't hint enough."

"And I take it you can still run in heels." Chaniel's eyes swept along her body, coolly assessing. There was no hint of flirtation there – he stayed in-character – but something about his judgment unnerved her. It wasn't the curiosity, the way he looked at her as more of an object than a person; sadly, that was just part of what an open transsexual had to deal with from strangers.

But this guy was pretending to be more than a stranger, and yet he looked at her with such coldness. Mom and Daniel, even at their most surprised and confused, had never looked at her that way. Dad …

Dad's stare had been just like that.

Disquieted, Alexis took another swig of her cocktail. "Listen. This is a weird time for my family."

"Is there a time that isn't weird for our family? The tabloids suggest not."

"_My_ family doesn't need this kind of crap right now," Alexis said. "If you pursue this to the limit, you'll never see a dime. But I'm willing to give you ten thousand dollars to sign a waiver and walk away, this second. Just to buy us some peace and quiet."

It was an impulsive offer – one she hadn't discussed with the rest of the family – but it would serve as a decent pretext for their meeting tonight. And hey, maybe he'd take the cash. Her lips curled at the thought of announcing to Daniel that his Spider-Man hijinks had been useless after all; he'd be relieved, and a little bit chagrined, which was just how she liked to keep her younger brother.

But Chaniel said, "Please. You've spent that much money on table service one night in Vegas. Don't insult me."

"You've insulted me," Alexis retorted. "And my whole family with this ridiculous game."

"It's not a game." Chaniel stood and brushed off his suit. "When you finally understand who I am, you'll regret this, I'm sure. Let's take the apologies as given. So when you learn the truth, we can have a fresh start." With that, he walked out, calling over one shoulder, "You'll get the tab, I take it?"

The son of a bitch was insufferable.

In some very familiar ways …

**oooooo**

"You had … amnesia?" The receptionist at NYRB might have a bigger vocabulary than Amanda, but she had the exact same disdainful stare. "Seriously?"

"Trauma-induced. From the hostage crisis. And the whack on the head." Betty tried to say all this smoothly, but there was no way to not make it sound a little bit crazy. Swiftly she continued, "But I'm back, and I'm fine, and I'm totally ready for today's story conference!"

"Sure." The receptionist didn't look convinced, but she wasn't the person Betty was most concerned about winning over. Jackson Noble and her fellow editors were the ones whose opinions mattered most in the short term; the rest of the staff would come around, given time. Hadn't she won over everybody at MODE?

Thinking of MODE naturally made her think of Daniel, who had sat glumly through the movie last night … though anybody's mood would be darkened by realizing they'd paid good money to watch "Prince of Persia." Although Betty remained convinced that Chaniel was nothing but a con artist, there was no doubting that he'd done a number on Daniel's head. Daniel, who could suffer days of insecurity over whether his shirt cuffs were peeking or peeping from his jacket sleeves, simply was not built to handle this kind of thing well.

So in her precious few seconds before the story conference began, she texted,_ How are you holding up?_

He answered instantly: _Didn't sleep. Didn't eat. At least I'm losing weight. _

_That is a total chick line, Daniel. Besides, you need to take care of yourself. _

_I'll eat a banana._

_That doesn't count as taking care of yourself!_

_Talking to you counts._ This was followed by a little heart, which made Betty grin for the split second before she realized she was about to be late for her meeting.

She managed to scoot into the conference room at the last possible moment that it wouldn't look like rushing. Although she caught a few raised eyebrows, for the most part people didn't seem to have taken undue notice of her extended vacation, and the main person who counted – her editor, Jackson Noble – smiled in apparently sincere welcome. "Betty! Glad you could join us."

"Glad to be back," she said. Although it was her second day back at work, she'd spent the first holed up in her office, making up for lost time on the draft of her first story. This was sort of like her unveiling as the sane, solid professional she really was. Or at least tried to be.

As another editor began talking about her article on Orhan Pamuk, Betty's phone vibrated in her palm. Since she didn't have a whole lot to say about Turkey's foremost author, she stole a glance at the screen, expecting to see another crisis message from Daniel.

Instead, the text was from Hilda: _Good news! The whole family's staying together in Queens this weekend! _

Betty's first thought was that it was probably better for Justin and Austin to stay put; the poor kids were still traumatized after Mrs. Starkey's cruel rejection of her son, and they were more likely to get a little privacy in the Queens house than at Bobby's place.

Then she remembered that she'd been planning on inviting Daniel out to Queens for the weekend, so she could still take care of Papi while keeping Daniel from freaking out non-stop. Daniel was at his best when he forgot his own concerns helping to look after others; an evening with her father would have helped him relax, and made sure he ate, too – nobody could resist the empanadas. And after Dad went to sleep – well, she was still having naughty thoughts about curling up beside Daniel in that recliner –

But with Hilda, Bobby, Justin and Austin in the house too? Forget it. She and Daniel would never get a moment's peace, and while she hoped he'd soon be spending the night out there with her regularly, Betty balked at taking Daniel to bed for the first time with her entire family waving them goodbye down the hall. Hilda would probably eavesdrop, maybe shout suggestions through the wall.

Even as Betty shuddered at the thought, her phone vibrated again. Once more, the message was from Hilda: _We are seriously overdue for some girl talk. Can't wait to catch up! _

Betty had missed their girl talks desperately during the past couple of months. While she understood that Hilda deserved her newlywed phase, Betty had sometimes needed a sisterly perspective that she'd had to do without.

Still – did it have to be now? Months without a heart-to-heart chat, and Hilda finally made time for her just as Betty needed that time for her and Daniel?

With a sigh, she typed back, _Great! _

She'd think of some other time to devote to Daniel. Maybe he could come by for the afternoon and they could … sneak out for a while? Or an early dinner tonight, with an equally early swing by his place – she hadn't even been in his new apartment, at least not since he'd actually moved into it. That hardly seemed adequate for the crisis he was in, or much of an opportunity to finally go to bed together, but it was better than nothing.

Wasn't it?

And then she went back to listening to the meeting, and tried to think of something to say about Orhan Pamuk, because if she was simultaneously failing sisterhood and girlfriend-being, she could at least stay professional.

**oooooo**

Daniel tossed his banana peel in the trash can as he strolled into his mother's office at HOT FLASH. Last March's brilliant-gold cover with Susan Sarandon hung, newly-framed, behind the big desk where Mom sat in front of piles of papers. "Is this actual business news, or are you about to sneak me a tranquilizer?"

"Please. Like I could get my hands on any Valium." Mom sighed as she rested her chin in one hand. "Doctors get so strange about prescribing tranquilizers to alcoholics. As though I could mix myself a Xanax martini." Her gaze turned thoughtful. "A Xanax-tini? That would sell."

"Today, I'd order three," he admitted. "But I'm all right, Mom." That was stretching the truth a bit, unless severe anxiety and some stomach cramps counted as "all right," but he didn't want to worry her.

"I didn't call you in here to drug you or bug you about MODE. I called you in here to see the latest from my private investigator."

Why hadn't he thought of that? "She dug up some dirt on Chad Pulaski?"

"Not dirt, exactly, but information. There could be something in here for us to use."

Quickly Daniel took a seat in front of his mother's desk; she circled around to sit beside him, iPad in hand. It wasn't necessary for her to sit beside him for this, but he understood, instinctively, that she wanted to be closer to him right now; he felt the same way about her. About Tyler, and Alexis and D.J. Like he hadn't even understood how good it felt just to sit next to someone and know they were your family until – until he didn't know for sure any more.

"Chad Pulaski," Mom announced, pulling up an image of him in high school: standard senior portrait stuff, though in some ways the resemblance to the younger Alex was even more striking there. "He appears to be telling the truth about his birth date and the hospital, I'm afraid. That's probably what gave him the idea for this stunt in the first place."

"Sure." Daniel tried to swallow the knot in his throat. "That must be it."

Briskly, his mother continued flipping through the images – collage paper photos, now, showing a robust young athlete, a student government leader, a scholarship student whose straight As must have funded his whole education. "He's the son of Bob and Cindy Pulaski, lifelong residents of Ozarkville. According to the Meade Publications database, Cindy's actually a HOT FLASH subscriber. So she's obviously a woman of class and taste. How she raised such a reprobate son, I can't imagine."

"You're a woman of class and taste, and you raised me and Alexis."

"Point taken," Mom said dryly. "Chad's criminal record begins and ends with a DUI when he was visiting New Orleans at 23. However, his employment record is … interesting. He's been in finance, small-time stuff for the most part, but working his way up the ladder. A couple of the firms he left have been brought up on insider trading charges – but always after he got the hell out of Dodge."

Daniel considered this. "So he probably bends the law, even if he doesn't break it. And he lets other people pick take the fall."

"Looks like it." His mother arched an eyebrow, an expression that was equal parts amusement and disgust. "Lately he's been engaging in a little real estate speculation. Nothing illegal, though the word 'shady' does come to mind."

"Nothing illegal. In other words, nothing we can use."

"It's proof that this isn't a trustworthy person. So we shouldn't let him get to us."

Chaniel's face shone up from the iPad's screen, glossy and confident in his college track uniform. Mom had done all this to make Daniel feel better; why did he feel even worse? Quietly, he said, "Is he getting to you?"

"Do you mean, did I doubt for one solitary moment that you're my son?" Her hand covered his. "No. Never."

Daniel couldn't help smiling at her. "And you can just trust that. How you feel. That's all you need to be totally sure."

"I can trust how I feel about you. There have been times in my life I thought that was the only thing I could trust. It's going to take more than some yokel conman from the boonies to shake that. So don't let it shake you either, all right?"

"All right." He kissed her on the cheek and distracted her with some chit-chat about D.J. before walking out of her office, finding the nearest men's room and splashing some cold water on his face to keep himself from throwing up.

As he leaned over the sinks, droplets trickling down his cheeks, Daniel gulped in one deep breath, then another. Was he the only one who saw how obviously Chaniel fit into the Meade family mold? He looked like Alex. He had Dad's drive and Mom's brains. He had a tenuous connection with law and order, which was just one more check in the "Chaniel's telling the truth" column. Was Daniel the only Meade who'd never committed a felony? Well, besides D.J. So far.

Once again he reminded himself of all the assurances he'd been given – by his loving mother, his confident sister and sweet, constant Betty, who had more reason to doubt him than anyone else and yet always gave him her total faith. He knew all those assurances had been given sincerely, in kindness, and on one level he'd treasure them forever.

On another level, Daniel knew they didn't mean a damn thing.

As if she could hear his distress across town, Betty chose that moment to text him; he looked down at the chime to see the words: _Call me when you're free, ok? Out of my meeting and we should find some time for this weekend! _

He should have been celebrating. Making plans to drag her to his bed, or hers, or an obliging hotel if all else failed. Thinking of nothing but her.

Instead Daniel felt his fate coming toward him like a freight train, and there was no question of getting out of its way.

**oooooo**

"Okay, so, the whole thing here is that we want to get people to actually look at your face," Amanda said to her newest client. "Because they've seen everything else."

Kerilyn Blumenthal – who refused to call herself anything other than Kerilyn B. – nodded solemnly. "So, like, some blue eyeshadow, like, really sparkly?"

Amanda imagined telling Marc that later. She'd wait until he had a mouthful of Evian. He'd spout off like the Bethesda fountain. "Well, first we're going to start with a better haircut. And maybe some highlights. Real ones. Sun-In isn't gonna cut it anymore."

Kerilyn trotted obediently to the hairstylist Amanda had hired, which would give her a couple of hours to try to pull together a look. She'd always seen her stylist career as an opportunity to hobnob with the stars, and with Penelope's career continuing to thrive, Amanda had dared to hope her next client would be bigger and better. Instead, her next client was Kerilyn B., who at this point was mostly known for starring in a sex tape with a C-list rapper. The only reason the thing was even getting web hits was because Kerilyn didn't object to some stuff a whole lot of other girls would object to. Even Amanda, who considered herself sexually flexible (in the literal and figurative senses) would have drawn the line way short of that thing with the mayonnaise.

But Kerilyn B. was, for this week at least, a marginal celebrity, and if she could show up at a couple of events looking halfway decent, and she spouted off a few good sound bites, a reality show might come knocking. The Kardashians had started with less, after all. This was America, the land of opportunity. Anything could happen.

As Amanda went through her collection of miniskirts, trying to find one at just the right level of trashiness, she heard her phone ring to the tune of "Only Girl In The World." Grinning, she leaped for it, "Hello, my sexy one."

"Hey, there." Tyler had the kind of smile you could hear over the phone. "Having a good day?"

"I got a new client! That makes two, three if you count my dad, so really two."

"Amanda, that's awesome! Who is it?"

"Kerilyn B."

"Who the heck is – wait. The girl with the mayonnaise? Ugh. Oh, man, I just bought a tuna sub for lunch. I'm gonna have to throw it out."

"She has real breakout potential," Amanda insisted, as she considered and then discarded a skirt in metallic lace. "She also has seriously tragic roots, but that's being taken care of as we speak."

"If anybody can make that girl look classy, it's you, baby." As Amanda preened in the compliment, Tyler continued, "Listen, I wanted to run something by you."

"Does it involve mayonnaise?"

"… you know, I'm just gonna skip lunch. Anyway. No. Cliff St. Paul called me today. Apparently a few magazines have been crazy to get their hands on the photos he shot of me that night."

He didn't have to say which night he meant. Amanda shuddered at the memory of the hostage crisis they'd all lived through together – in Marc's case, just barely. Had they not thrown Victoria Hartley in the loony bin yet? They couldn't do that fast enough for Amanda.

Tyler said, "Cliff says he wouldn't even consider releasing them if they weren't good, but they're great. I mean, I don't get this whole modeling thing at all, and even I can tell they're kind of awesome. HUDSON has first dibs, of course. But Cliff said if I don't want to sign the permissions, it's no big deal. Personally, I think I'm okay with it, but I wanted to check in with you first."

"Why wouldn't I be okay with it?"

"Because they're a reminder of one of the most traumatic nights of our lives?"

"Puh-leeze. Like that should get in the way of a perfectly good modeling career." More softly, she added, "Besides, your sweet face could never remind me of anything except how much I adore you."

"Some of the photos have more to do with my abs than my sweet face."

Amanda smiled wickedly. "Do you want to know what your abs remind me of?"

"Why don't you show me later?" Tyler's soft chuckle sent little tingles along her spine.

That sounded like her evening was going to be extremely high on the awesome scale. Fishing out a skirt covered in copper sequins, Amanda said, "Oh, but you should probably ask Daniel how he feels about it too."

"Yeah, he's probably on edge because of this whole Chaniel weirdness. Honestly, it's got me kind of freaked – "

"What does the Chaniel have to do with it?" Amanda had heard about the whole fracas from Tyler and considered it total nonsense. Nor could she imagine anybody taking the situation more seriously than she did herself, which was to say, not in the slightest. "But Daniel – he's the kind of guy who would take that whole traumatic-memories thing seriously."

For a moment, Tyler didn't reply. His voice was kind of odd when he finally said, "Just Daniel? Not Marc, or maybe Betty?"

"Betty wouldn't mind. She's all generous and brave like that," she sighed. "And Marc's going to feel the same way about your modeling career that I do. I know he feels the same way about your abs."

"Okay, then." It seemed as if Tyler would say more, but he simply told her goodbye and hung up. Amanda didn't take too much notice of it, because the more she looked at this coppery miniskirt, the more she was convinced she'd found the right way to cover Kerilyn B.'s overexposed ass.

**oooooo**

At this point, Betty's romantic plans for the weekend were starting to focus on Sunday night – not exactly a wild-and-crazy evening for most people, but they could make it work. She and Daniel weren't exactly Amish, after all.

Sunday. She hated leaving him alone that long when he was so obviously in crisis; they could text and talk by phone, but it wasn't the same. Still, Sunday was what they had to work with, and Betty was determined to make the best of it. By then, maybe, the DNA tests would be in and he'd be relieved. On cloud nine, even. And she would have done her sisterly and daughterly duty; most critically, she'd be returning to Manhattan to spend the night … either in her apartment, or in Daniel's.

So that was a longer delay before she and Daniel could be alone together than Betty would have liked. However, it could work. It would work. Maybe their time together would be all the sweeter for the anticipation.

Unless she had spontaneously combusted from sexual frustration.

As Betty gathered everything together in her office at the end of the day, she mentally made a few notes: Rewrites from Jackson – loaded on her laptop, ready for whatever free time she somehow found this weekend. Sisterly bonding with Hilda – manicures at the corner salon Saturday morning, while Justin and Austin made sure Papi didn't try to cook sausage for brunch. (For an extra bonus, her nails would be perfect for her date with Daniel.) Drafts from other NYRB authors for her to start fact-checking – in her folder. Yes, she could do this; somehow, she was balancing it all.

A new text chimed on her phone, and Betty looked down to see another message from Hilda: _I was thinking, we ought to do a movie night on Sunday! You could go in on Monday morning like you used to do. I rented_ Xanadu_ – shut up, you know you love it. _

Betty did love_ Xanadu_, in a frighteningly non-ironic sense, but this news made her groan. Hastily she tapped out: _Going back in to Manhattan Sunday night. Why don't we watch tonight?_

_I thought we were making a real sisters' weekend out of this! _

_Daniel and I had plans. _

_Hello, this is your family here._

What about this was Hilda not getting? Just as Betty prepared to ask this question via text, her phone rang. The screen showed her Daniel's face, and she lit up. "Daniel! How are you?"

"Remember how crappy I was doing the last time we spoke?"

"—yeah?"

"Worse than that."

"Oh, no." Betty put her folders and bags back on her desk as she sank back into her chair. "At least tell me you ate something."

"A banana and some lentil soup from the dirty deli."

"You promised me you wouldn't eat at the dirty deli anymore! Not after the trichinosis scare."

"First of all, that was seven months ago, and second of all, I didn't want to go to Subway. Did you see that vid with that Kerilyn B. girl?"

"Who?"

"Never mind. Trust me, you're glad you missed it. That's enough to put you off mayo for life." Daniel's heavy sigh sounded ragged even over the phone line. "I'm not getting trichinosis from the lentil soup."

Betty personally suspected he might be getting the deli owner's old dishwater in the lentil soup, but this wasn't the right time to say so. "Listen, I know this is later than either of us wanted, but what do you think about Sunday night? For you and me, I mean."

She expected him to either leap at the suggestion or argue that it was too long to wait. Instead, his response was a long silence before he said, "I don't think I'll be around Sunday night."

"What do you mean?"

"Betty – I'm leaving New York tonight, for the whole weekend."

"Where are you – oh, my God. You're going to Missouri."

"Ozarkville or bust," Daniel confirmed. "I'm going to look up Bob and Cindy Pulaski. Maybe if I meet them, see them in the flesh … maybe then, I'll know."

The sheer badness of this plan was almost beyond Betty's ability to comprehend. It was like attempting to describe the majesty of the Grand Canyon, or the fakeness of Cher's face: Human language couldn't quite get there. "Wait. You're going to just walk up to them and say you might be their son? Even though you almost certainly aren't? Daniel, you haven't thought this through."

"Of course I'm not going to walk up and say that! I'm going to come up with something else to tell them."

"You mean, you're going to lie. Does this sound like a good idea to you?"

"I can't just sit here," Daniel insisted. "I can't take another couple of days of waiting around and hoping the test results come in before Monday. It's time to do something. And I'm sorry about our date this weekend – sorrier than you can know, and I'll make it up to you, I swear – "

"You don't have to worry about making this up to me. You're the one I'm concerned about here. I mean – yes, of course, I'll miss you, but – shouldn't you wait? This is only going to mess with your head even worse, and you should probably stick close to your mom and Alexis, right?"

"I'm flying out tonight, because I have to look into this. I have to learn something that isn't being spoon-fed to me by scientists or Chaniel or anybody else. This is something I have to do. Now. It can't wait."

She wasn't nearly as confident about that, but she had to let him do this, she realized. He didn't need any of her totally sound arguments why he shouldn't do this. He only needed her support. So Betty swallowed her dismay and her disappointment. "You'll find your answers. I know it."

"Betty, I love you."

It wasn't the first time Daniel had spoken those words to her; they'd each said them as friends before. But even without everything that had happened for them in the past couple of months, Betty would have known this was different. The raw emotion in his voice seemed to push away the distance between them, as if she could see him, touch him, standing in front of her. "Daniel – "

Voice rough, he continued, "My going away – it doesn't mean I love you any less. I just have to know who it is who loves you." Daniel hung up without another word, and Betty knew, that moment, that he was walking out of his old life.

**oooooo**

_continued tomorrow - _


	21. Show Me, Part Two

The airport nearest to Ozarkville, Missouri, turned out to only have three flights a day, the last of which Daniel wasn't going to be able to make. The next nearest airport was in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Daniel had never been to Tulsa, nor Oklahoma, and he had never wished to remedy that lack. He had no problem with the fact that they existed, but they were less places to him than concepts.

Still, he booked the tickets, made the world's fastest connection at O'Hare and arrived around 11 pm at the smallest airport he'd ever seen outside the Caribbean. It wasn't too small to have a rental car place, but by that hour the only vehicle left to him was a banana-yellow sub-compact. Daniel drove for two hours along a highway that seemed to be trafficked with no other cars, only eighteen-wheelers going so fast that their tailwinds shook his tiny car every time they blew past him. When he was within range of the town, he saw a small hotel and grabbed a room for the night. He'd find the Pulaskis in the morning.

As he fell, exhausted, into bed, he remembered his earlier hopes for his Friday night – which had also involved falling into bed, but preferably beside (on top of?) Betty. The thought of her, so far away from him when he'd hoped they'd be so close, made his heart constrict. He hoped Betty would forgive him for this. That the drama wouldn't scare her off. That he'd come back to her with some kind of truth.

Then he closed his eyes tightly to blot out the pain, and collapsed into slumber too deep for dreams.

The next morning, he double-checked the address he'd gotten from the Meade Publications database, discovered to his surprise that GPS had mapped Ozarkville, and set out on his way to find "Rural Road 287," whatever that might be. There seemed to be an awful lot of sky around here; it gave him the opposite of claustrophobia, whatever that might be. Daniel felt better with some tall buildings around him.

He also felt better with his cell phone on hand, but he'd tucked it deep into his bag and shut it off. If the DNA tests came in today instead of Monday, the email would come to him just as it would to Mom and Alexis. If he started checking for it now, the dread would overwhelm his every waking moment. So he'd shut it down, resolving to go without messages, calls or emails until the end of the day. By then, maybe he'd already have his truth.

Finally he drove up to a small white house with dark-green shutters that looked … pleasant. Not impoverished or tacky, the way his New Yorker mind had pictured anything on Rural Road 287. Not some Southern Gothic mansion, either. Just like any other average house that happened to have a tractor parked nearby. On the porch, a fat, elderly beagle yelped once as his car drove up, then put its head back down. Daniel got out of his car and sucked in a sharp breath at the stifling summer heat.

"Moogs, you hush," said a middle-aged woman as she stepped onto the porch. She slipped on a pair of reading glasses to peer at the car. "Can I help you, there?"

"Hi," Daniel said. He really, really should have planned this more in-depth; Betty might have had a point about what a rotten idea this was. The first thing that came to mind was, "I'm here from Meade Publications. In New York?"

"Oh! My goodness. Is this because Bob canceled his subscription to THE CUP? We swear, it's nothing personal." Then she leaned toward the door. "Bob! Get out here. It's the magazine people. I told you we had to give them 30 days' notice."

"No, no, nothing like that!" Daniel thought fast. "You subscribe to HOT FLASH, right? You are Cindy Pulaski?"

"Yes – "

"Well, we're doing a – feature, where we drop in on several HOT FLASH readers chosen from around the country and report on the lives of, ah, real women who enjoy the magazine." That actually sounded pretty credible. More to the point, it wasn't a bad feature idea. Maybe he could pitch it to … Mom …

The word _Mom _rang louder in his thoughts as Daniel stepped closer to see Cindy Pulaski for the first time. Before, the porch had shadowed her face somewhat; now, he could tell that she actually bore a strong resemblance to his mother. Uncanny, really: If Mom had let her hair go gray and wore T-shirts with denim culottes, she'd look just like this.

Then Bob Pulaski emerged, in jeans, short-sleeved button-up shirt and a John Deere hat. He looked even more like Bradford Meade than Cindy had resembled Claire. "I'm sick of that Tiger Woods," Bob said, obviously still worrying about his canceled subscription. "And I spend more of my free time fishing these days."

"It's not about that," Cindy said, patting his arm. "They've come to do a story about me. Because I read HOT FLASH. Can you imagine?"

They looked so unbelievably like his parents. At first Daniel felt a flush of triumph: _See, it makes sense now! Of course Chad looks like Alex did! If the parents are a lot alike, the kids would be too._

Then he thought, _It would also explain how a nurse mistook one set of parents in the hospital for another._

"Only if you're comfortable with the idea, of course," Daniel said. "We're choosing people at random, but you can still opt out. I thought I'd – hang out with you for a day, just see what your world is like, get to know more about Cindy Pulaski. And you too, Bob."

"Why would I be in HOT FLASH?" Bob asked, not unkindly.

"We cover our readers' love lives, too," Daniel improvised.

Cindy chuckled. "Remember that how-to article from last March? I'd think you'd be grateful to HOT FLASH around now."

This made Bob grin, but sheepishly. "Oh, my. Cindy. We hardly met this man, Mr. – "

"Call me Daniel." Wow, they'd never seen TMZ or the POST or any of the other publications that made him famous in his man-whore days. And they didn't look like they spent a lot of time in front of Fashion TV. Daniel rarely got a chance to make his own first impression these days; he found he liked it.

"Well, Daniel, you know what? I think it would be fun to be in a magazine." Cindy put her hands on her hips. "And thank God, I cleaned house yesterday. We don't have much on our slate, do we, Bob?"

"We need to make a run to the Wal-Mart, but I suppose that could wait 'til tomorrow." Bob's large, friendly hand clapped Daniel on the shoulder. "Come on in."

Cindy gasped. "Oh, goodness. Are we taking pictures? I want to have my hair done before any pictures."

"No pictures," Daniel promised. "Not today, anyway. Though at least you guys would match." It was a small joke – Cindy's lilac T-shirt picked up the purplish plaid pattern on Bob's shirt – but he wanted to put them at ease, make them laugh. He found that he liked the Pulaskis. If this was all a false alarm, HOT FLASH really could do the story, just like he'd suggested. Why not?

"We'd match most days. Both of us love purple. Whole family does. Must be genetic." Bob pointed at Daniel. "Looks like you do too!"

Daniel gazed down at his own purple T-shirt – the one that was the same shade as most of his favorite boxer shorts, sheets and ties – and swallowed hard.

**oooooo**

"So Bobby and I haven't actually talked about kids yet," Hilda said. "Kinda weird, huh?"

Betty just nodded as Hilda talked, nonstop. Her knife scraped strawberry jam across a toasted English muffin as she attempted to focus on what her sister was saying. She'd been trying to focus ever since last night, when she'd come home and almost instantly been besieged with chit-chat and "Xanadu." Justin and Austin had taken part in the movie marathon, insisting the camp value was too great to ignore, so the deeper sister conversations had been forced to wait until this morning.

But every passing second just worsened Betty's distraction and concern. Daniel had, by now, dragged himself halfway across the country in search of answers. If he didn't get them, the suspense was going to boil over; she thought he might really be at a breaking point. And if he did get answers – and those answers weren't what he wanted to hear –

_Don't be stupid! Of course Chaniel's not telling the truth. Why are you even worrying about this?_

Yet she had to worry. As long as Daniel was afraid, she remained afraid for him.

"Probably it's because of the miscarriage. Makes us each feel weird about bringing it up." Hilda's head drooped a little, as the old disappointment shadowed her cheer. Betty put one hand on her shoulder, but Hilda went on, again blithe, "Still, we gotta talk about it. I mean, I'm about to turn 37. Not getting any younger, you know? If Bobby wants a kid or two of his own, we need to get on the stick. No pun intended."

"Do you want another?" Betty tried again to think only of her sister, who she really had missed. "You never really talked about it, after Justin."

"Seventeen hours of labor will do that to a girl," Hilda sighed. "But honestly, I never thought about another because I was never in a position to think about it. It was all I could do to keep me and Justin fed, and that was with us living in this house. Now, though – seems a lot more doable."

Unable to resist a smile as she poured herself more orange juice, Betty concluded, "You _do_ want another baby."

"Maybe?" More serious than before, Hilda said, "I guess what it comes down to in life is being honest about what you want. Honest with yourself, first of all. I don't want to ask Bobby about a baby because I think baby clothes are cute – though _they are_. Or because I think people expect us to have one. It has to be for the right reasons, you know? I have to be honest with myself about this. Really ask myself what matters most. And then, no matter what I decide … hold true to that no matter what."

Betty asked herself what mattered most, and was honest with herself about what she wanted. In that moment, what she had to do became crystal clear.

She looked across the table at her sister and said, "I have to go to Missouri."

"Huh?"

"Today. As soon as possible." Betty got up from the table and hurried into the living room, where her laptop was leaned against the wall, recharging.

As she got it started up again, Hilda stomped into the room behind her, bathrobe trailing on the floor behind her. "What do you mean, today? And why Missouri?"

"Daniel's in trouble," Betty said. "The whole thing with Chaniel – "

Hilda wrinkled her nose. "Daniel bought a dog?"

"What? No." God, they really had done a rotten job of telling each other about their lives lately, hadn't they? Betty quickly explained who Chaniel was and the mind game he was playing on Daniel as she surfed to Expedia and discovered that three flights a day would get her to the Ozarkville area – the first of which she could still make, if she packed and caught a gypsy cab to LaGuardia in a hurry.

Just as Betty scooted the mouse over to "purchase tickets," Hilda said, "Okay, yeah, that sucks, but, Betty – you and me – this weekend was supposed to be about family. You know? Family comes first."

"I know. It does." Betty clicked. She'd be eating ramen noodles the rest of the month, but the tickets were hers. "And Daniel _is_ family. You know that as well as I do."

After a long moment, Hilda nodded. "This is a pretty far cry from him making you go into Manhattan to pick out his shirts for him. No, you're right. It's important. Go. I just – I miss my baby sister."

"I miss my big sister." Betty clutched Hilda to her in a fierce embrace, and for a moment – with Hilda in her fuzzy robe and Betty in her striped pajamas – they might have been kids again, Hilda the too-cool high schooler and Betty only a child, able to admit they adored each other only when nobody else was around to see. "Soon. I promise. We're going to talk about everything in the world."

"Okay, okay." Already over the sentimentality, Hilda gave Betty a push toward the stairs. "Get packing, would you? Before Daniel gets into even more trouble. Honestly, I'm not sure whether that boy can breathe anything but New York air."

**oooooo**

"You've never heard of Frisbee golf?" Alexis grinned as she and DJ walked near the boat pond in Central Park. The day was hot but not searing … just a hint of July's approach in the air. The sky was blue, she was with her son, and within a few hours, maybe, she'd be able to put the whole Chaniel mess behind her. Right now, it was good to concentrate only on DJ. "What kinds of things do they teach you in school?"

"Nothing with Frisbees or golf." DJ laughed at the thought. "It sounds fun, though. How do you play?"

Alexis explained the rules, though she had to leave out all the parts about drinking beer, which were of course half the point of Frisbee golf. Still, if it was something she and DJ could do together, she'd enjoy it. "What do you say? Want to learn?"

"Yeah, sure. Not today – "

"We're kinda short on Frisbees, huh? But we could get one. I think FAO Schwartz is down around the bottom of the park." She dimly remembered childhood visits there, turning happily toward the beautiful dolls before her father pushed her back into the model planes department.

Nodding, DJ said, "But we should get Daniel to play with us, too. I bet he knows how to play Frisbee golf."

"… he does." It was one of the few sports where they were evenly matched, or at least appeared to be after they'd split a six-pack.

"Where is Daniel this weekend?"

"In Missouri." Alexis thought this errand was kind of ridiculous, and it had upset their mother. If it kept Daniel busy, though, it wasn't totally worthwhile. No, his sudden departure wasn't the reason she suddenly felt her sunny mood clouding over. Careful to keep her voice neutral, she said, "You were excited to come back to New York and see Daniel, huh?"

"Yeah, of course!" DJ was distracted for a moment by some nearby skateboarders, but the grin on his face was recognizably for his uncle. "Weren't you?"

"Sure." It was true, wasn't it? Alexis wanted it to be true. But she couldn't ignore the ugly jealousy gnawing at her now. Lightly, she added, "I guess he's your favorite."

DJ stopped, gazed up at her and then did something he'd never done before: He took her hand. Startling for any near-teenage boy in public, but not as startling as the way it made her heart melt.

He said only, "I can love both of you, right?"

Alexis couldn't speak. It was the first time she'd heard that word out of DJ's mouth, in English or French. She just nodded.

"I miss Daniel, is all. It had been so long. And I know you do too. All of us are nicer to each other when Daniel's around."

Although Alexis had never put it to herself that way, she had to admit DJ had a point. Not that they were always great to each other even with Daniel nearby – but it was always worse without him. Daniel had a sweetness to him nobody else in the family shared; when she was younger, not yet a parent, Alexis had sometimes seen that as weakness. But they weren't the same thing, not at all.

"Yeah," she said. "Daniel's the glue that keeps the family together."

"Glue?"

"It's just a saying we have in English."

DJ's eyes kept flicking over to the skateboarders. "Can I watch for a few minutes? Please?"

"Have at it." She watched him lope off toward the kids his own age, eager and confident, happier than she ever remembered being when she was young. Her own mood was lifting to match his. _DJ said he loved me!_

Then she heard, "Out for a run?"

Alexis turned to see Chaniel standing there in running shorts and a college T-shirt not unlike what she would have worn a few years ago. Of course, his college T-shirt said UNIVERSITY OF KANSAS instead of anyplace in the Ivy League, but otherwise it was like coming face to face with her younger self.

"Sure," she said. Better that than admitting she was here with DJ: She didn't want this goon coming anywhere near her son. Besides, she'd dressed in yoga pants, camisole and tennis shoes; she could pull off the lie. "Just like you, I guess."

"Like half the city of New York," he replied, and it was true; the park was packed. It never ceased to surprise Alexis, how you could run into people on the street in a city of eight million, but you could and you did – and on a warm, bright day like this, there were probably at least 20 or 30 acquaintances of hers somewhere in Central Park.

Why did she have to run into this one?

"Haven't warmed up yet," Chaniel said. "Want to join me? Just for a lap."

Alexis' eyes met his, and she recognized the challenge for what it was. She'd said exactly this to Daniel several times; inevitably, it was the prelude to a race.

Except Chaniel didn't yet know who he was dealing with.

"Sure," she said. DJ had his cell phone on him, and besides, he wouldn't budge for another half hour at least, not while skateboarding tricks were going down. "Why not?"

She and Chaniel fell into step, a slow pace at first – then a proper run. Steady, sure, but fast.

_He has good form_, Alexis thought. _But mine's better. _

"Must be tougher now," Chaniel called. "Since you need a sports bra."

"Look at it this way," she shot back. "I don't need a jockstrap."

He laughed, and Alexis couldn't tell if he was amused by her joke or just happy to realize he could bait her so easily.

_Why am I doing this? Why are any of us letting him set the pace and the course? Well, I'll teach him a lesson soon enough. _

As they rounded the turn that would bring them back toward the boat pond, Alexis chose her moment, took a deep breath, and poured it on. Her feet went faster, then faster; her arms pumped as she gave it every bit of speed she had – and she had a lot. This was where she always defeated her college rivals … where she always left Daniel in the dust …

And it was where Chaniel passed her.

Impossible. Yet it was happening. She was giving it everything she had, all her considerable strength, and yet Chaniel was quicker. He was pushing himself just as hard as she was, if not harder; instead of grimacing in pain, he was grinning. He loved beating her, she realized. He loved the kill – even more than she did.

He rushed past the place where they'd started – the tacitly acknowledged finish line – and laughed out loud as they both loped to a halt. While Alexis leaned over, hands on her knees, to gulp in a breath, he said, "Didn't know I still had it in me!"

"Thought I still – had it – in me." She wiped her sweaty brow, hoping the gesture would hide some of her chagrin.

Chaniel shrugged. "Guess it runs in the family." He gave her a wink before turning to go.

_Oh, God_, Alexis thought. _What if it does run in the family? _

**oooooo**

Lime green weekender bag over one shoulder, Betty was prepared to hail a cab out to the Pulaski home from the airport. There were only two problems: She didn't have their address, and apparently not every single town in the world had taxis.

Both problems were easily taken care of once she'd taken an obliging shuttle bus to the center of town, where she found a Waffle House. They had a phone directory thinner than some catalogs Betty regularly received, and the Pulaskis kept their number listed. Then her waitress, Sheryl, turned out to be super-friendly. The two of them started talking about Sheryl's carrot earrings, and by the end of her lunch-and-research session, when Betty asked where Rural Road 287 was, Sheryl offered her a ride out that way without even asking why Betty needed to go there.

At any rate, within two hours of her arrival in town, Betty got dropped off in front of a nice little white house with good wishes and the email address of the lady who made the cute carrot earrings.

It was the first time during her whole headlong rush to Missouri that Betty felt any doubt. Now she had to walk across the yard and knock on that door. She knew she'd find Daniel there; the resolve in his voice during their last phone call was enough to tell her that he wouldn't have turned back.

But would he even want her there? This was delicate. Sensitive. If he'd seen by now that there was no way Chaniel was telling the truth, Daniel probably felt embarrassed by his dramatic actions. Betty didn't blame him for a moment – but he might blame himself. Or what if the Pulaskis had figured out why he was there and were freaking? They didn't know her from anybody. Worse: What if they were in on their son's scam? They could be messing with Daniel's head. Or now they knew the game was up, and they were taking him hostage!

Betty stared at the house, which now seemed to loom before her as ominous as the Bates Motel. She forced herself to keep going, step by step, as she fished in her weekender for her phone. If the Pulaskis were crazed kidnappers, she'd just call police. Oh, God, did this place even get cell phone reception?

Then the front door swung open, making her jump – but it was Daniel, more at ease than she'd seen him in weeks. "I can get it – won't take a minute!" he called behind him as he loped down the front steps. As he turned and saw her, though, he froze in place, clearly so shocked he hardly believed his eyes.

"Hi," Betty said in a small voice. "I hope it's okay that I – I mean, I don't want to intrude if – "

"Oh, my God. You're really here." Daniel swept her up in his arms and twirled her around in a circle. His embrace almost took the breath out of her, and she could hear his voice crack. "You came all the way here!"

Laughing, dizzy, Betty hung on until her feet finally touched earth again. "I wanted to be with you. Right or wrong, no matter what – Daniel, I'm with you."

For a moment he could say nothing else, but his awestruck smile told her the whole story.

At the door of the house, a graying beagle bayed at her once, then wagged its tale. A man emerged. "Simmer down, Moogs. Well, who have we here?"

Daniel straightened; they'd just broken from their embrace, and she could see he was still using some kind of cover story. "This is Betty Suarez. She is a journalist, ah, friend of mine from New York, and I thought she might work with me on the story."

The story? Daniel must have gone with the magazine as a cover … which was actually pretty good thinking. Betty resolved to play along.

"We've got even more reporters coming in from Manhattan?" The man looked eerily like Bradford Meade, Betty thought; give him a power suit and take away 15 pounds, and they could be doubles. However, she never remembered Mr. Meade appearing … uncertain, which Mr. Pulaski did now. "This is a whole lot of publicity for me and Cindy all of a sudden."

"I'm very nonthreatening!" Betty ventured, with her friendliest smile.

Mr. Pulaski clearly didn't agree, but he just as clearly wanted to seem calm and confident, so he put on a brave smile and gave them the thumbs-up. Betty gasped, and Daniel turned to her and mouthed, _You see? _

Then he looked back at Mr. Pulaski and said, sheepishly, "Uh, I should probably also mention that Betty's my girlfriend. We missed each other. Which has a lot to do with why she's here than any publicity blitz."

"Ohhh, I see." Mr. Pulaski's smile became much more genuine. "Cindy, we've got young love out in the front yard."

"Not the dogs again," called a woman's voice. "Use the hose!"

Daniel started laughing, and Betty couldn't resist a grin. "Please, no hose."

Mr. Pulaski said, "Well, as long as I'm teaching one of you to fish, I might as well teach two."

Betty blinked. "Daniel, you're – learning how to fish?"

"We made a deal," Daniel said. "I show him my iPad; he teaches me how to land a trout."

"Sounds fair," she agreed. At least he'd hit it off with this man who looked – and maybe acted? – a whole lot like a man who could be his dad. The heavy fear that had hung over her for days finally lifted, and Betty found she could deal with the absurdity and uncertainty of it all so much better now that she and Daniel were again side by side.

"I'll let you finish saying hello to your journalist, ah, friend. Cindy and I can get the pie out of the icebox." Mr. Pulaski went back indoors, giving them another moment alone.

Taking Daniel's hand, Betty said, "You seem okay, actually. Are you?"

"I am now." Daniel shook his head, still smiling at her open-mouthed with wonder. His voice almost a rasp, he said, "You amaze me."

Betty pulled him down for a kiss. As their lips met, she knew – no matter how strange it was that they were here, they were exactly where they needed to be. Together.

**oooooo**

Amanda's apartment was, as of now, Kerilyn B. central.

Her schedule covered one wall; potential outfits covered another. Marc had said Amanda needed to make the girl hire an assistant, pronto, but for the time being, Amanda was the only support Kerilyn had and it was up to her to make it work.

"Okay, so, now she's doing MTV after lunch on Monday, and then there's the Smirnoff bash. I'm thinking white, for maximum contrast with the fake Cheetoh tan. What do you think?" she called, as she held up a spandex minidress – classic tacky, but the visible blue thong beneath would take it down a notch to the true Kerilyn B. level.

From his place on the sofa, Tyler just shrugged, "I guess that works. You're better at this kind of thing than I am."

"Too true." Which was only her teasing him, and yet Tyler sank down further in the sofa. He'd been kind of gloomy all day, really; it was pretty annoying of him.

Maybe that was selfish – Amanda now occasionally asked herself this question, because Tyler brought it out in her – but she thought Tyler's weird mood was even more selfish. This was her big break! Kerilyn B. was nobody from nowhere, and she did this one tacky thing that should have bought her one joke on Jimmy Kimmel, max. But then Amanda had sent her out in that coppery miniskirt with bright white panties on and made sure the photogs caught a flash of it by instructing Kerilyn on the absolute worst way to get a car. Upskirts sans underwear were so 2007 – but the panties were perversely sexier. And tackier. And attention-getting. Now Kerilyn had more invites than she knew what to do with, and there was a possibility of an endorsement deal with Hellman's. That was what you called some expert styling.

Was Tyler congratulating her on that? He was not. He was moping on her sofa like his cat just died, or "One Tree Hill" got canceled, or something else awful had happened.

He was still her sweet baby, though, so instead of snapping at him, she said, "What's the matter?"

"I guess I'm kind of freaked out."

"By the mayo thing? We can totally switch to mustard."

"No. By the whole Chaniel thing."

"You can't take that guy seriously."

"I don't. At least – I don't want to. But now Daniel's taken off for Missouri, and Alexis was acting really weird when she and DJ got in this afternoon, and Yoga keeps saying she can smell trouble. If anybody could smell trouble, it would be her."

Amanda found that even the mention of this annoyed her. "Listen. Daniel is one hundred percent total Meade. It's so obvious. I can't believe you'd even doubt him for a second after he came back to save us during the whole creepy hostage thing."

Tyler gave her a look. "You get really defensive about Daniel."

"Well, duh. He's my friend."

"He used to be more than that."

She shrugged. "Back in ye olden days."

"As in March?"

Amanda had almost forgotten about Daniel/Amanda 2: Electric Boogaloo, a.k.a. her one stint in grief counseling. "Oh, right, then too, but that was no big."

Tyler's eyes widened. "What do you mean, 'then too'?"

It occurred to Amanda only then that, while she had never set out to lie to Tyler about Daniel, she had never precisely spelled out how involved they'd been. She'd never seen the need. Her feelings for Daniel were totally over; Daniel's feelings for her had never been closer than they were now – he actually liked her more when they weren't sleeping together, which was weird, but whatever. Besides, she'd always figured Daniel filled Tyler in on the deets.

But apparently Daniel had figured she was doing the filling in. Which meant Tyler was only now learning that she and Daniel hadn't been a one-time thing.

"Um," she said. "Well, we did go out before."

"Before when?"

"Before the other time we went out."

Tyler rose slowly from the sofa. "When you defended him yesterday, I thought – I had this moment where I – but I said, no. That's stupid. Don't be jealous of how your girlfriend feels loyal to your brother. They're friends. They might have gone out, if things had been different, but that's all there is to it. But it's not, is it?"

Pleading, Amanda stepped over a pile of six-inch metallic heels on the floor to get closer to him. "Tyler, come on. You know I only love you."

His expression gentled, but only for a moment. "I wish you'd been clear with me about this from the beginning."

"I wasn't lying to you, I swear. I really thought you understood everything."

"Just tell me this." Tyler took a deep breath. "Did you ever have sex with Daniel?"

Amanda clapped her hand over her mouth. "Oh, my God, you understood nothing."

Tyler went pale, and Amanda's stomach did the same nauseating flip she'd felt the first time she watched Kerilyn B.'s sex tape. She wanted to say something to make it all better, but she had a feeling the only thing he wanted to hear was that she and Daniel had never slept together. That was a massive lie beyond her ability to tell, even at her lowest – and she could never be at her lowest, not with Tyler.

But as he stormed out and slammed the door behind him, she felt herself falling down to that low place all over again.

**oooooo**

_I really like these people_, Daniel thought.

They were seated around the Pulaski family dinner table, after a long afternoon that had been half-successful, half-not: Bob was definitely buying an iPad, but Daniel and Betty had failed so spectacularly at fishing that they were now dining on take-out barbecue, which was so delicious it almost made up for that time Daniel accidentally snagged the hook on his own shoe.

Under the pretext of reporting, he'd learned a lot about the Pulaskis: They appeared to be very happily married; they were friendly and open to a point that Daniel, as a New Yorker, considered almost bizarre; and they owned a pumpkin farm. Daniel had never once in his life thought about the fact that pumpkins had to be grown somewhere, instead of magically appearing at Halloween. He got Cindy's opinions about HOT FLASH, Bob's opinions about small towns versus big cities, and jokes from both of them about his pretty girlfriend.

(Of course, they'd adored Betty on sight. How could you not? Daniel no longer remembered that this was even possible.)

However, only now, over dinner, did he dare to venture the question that had been on his mind all day: "You know, we haven't talked about children. Do you have any?"

Across the table, Betty paused with her glass of iced tea only halfway to her lips. But he thought both of them managed to keep their expressions neutral.

"We have two," Cindy said. "Our youngest is our daughter, Julie. She's 28. Prettiest thing you ever laid your eyes on. If you weren't so crazy about Betty here, I'd probably try to fix you two up."

Uh-oh. "Um, did she ever visit New York, or work there in the modeling or entertainment industries? Or maybe food service? Bartending?" It all came out of Daniel's mouth in a rush.

Bob and Cindy shared a confused look, but Bob said, "No, Julie's never been anywhere near the big city if she could help it. She's a country girl. Big animals vet. Has a practice in the Kansas City suburbs."

That was a huge relief. Daniel thought his week was weird enough without having any incest scares thrown in.

It was Betty who calmly said, "Who's your older child?"

"Our son, Chad." Cindy's voice was heavy now. "We haven't spoken to him in a few years."

"Cindy, I don't know." Bob leaned onto the table, and somehow he looked older than he had before. "This isn't something I'm ready to have in a magazine."

"I don't want to pry." This was a huge lie, and Daniel knew it – he longed to pry. But already he felt protective enough toward Bob and Cindy not to want to hurt them. The subject of Chad Pulaski clearly hurt them a lot. "It's okay."

"It'd be better if none of this was in HOT FLASH," Cindy said. "But – what is it they say? Off the record. That's it. Off the record, Chad was always a fish out of water here. He never fit in. So bright, so handsome – but he always wanted something besides what he had."

"Never tried to make him be a farmer," Bob murmured. "Always told him, anything you want to be, son. The thing is, he wanted to be someone else. And that never changes, no matter how hard you try."

_I'm not so sure_, Daniel thought. But his mind was racing. Was assuming false identities maybe some kind of psychological sickness Chaniel had? It would explain a lot.

"A few years ago, we learned – well, I was ill, and – " Cindy's voice trailed off. Then, more strongly, she said, "Let's just say we learned some things as a family that I thought we could have handled as a family. But Chad wouldn't have any of it. He walked away from us, and I don't know if he'll ever come back. But we'll always love him. That's all there is to say about it."

Her story matched Chaniel's, as far as it went – and by now, Daniel was positive that Cindy and Bob weren't in on the scam.

Betty had caught it too, and her saw her dark eyes searching his, concerned that he might break down or freak out. Both of those sounded like excellent ideas, but Daniel found he had to ask something else first: "Are you okay, Cindy?"

"What's that?" She was clearly distracted by her painful memories of her son.

"You said you were sick," Daniel explained. "But you're better now?"

A soft smile lifted some of the sadness from her expression. "Yes, I'm fine. You've got yourself a sweet one here, Betty."

"I sure do." Betty brushed her fingers along his forearm, and the touch soothed him more than anything else could have done.

Bob put his napkin beside his plate. "Tell you what. Why don't you two walk down to the back pond? It's pretty at night, particularly when we've got a full moon like we do. Let me and Cindy clear the table."

"We can help," Betty began, but Daniel turned his hand over to capture hers.

"I'd like to see that moon," he said. Her face changed slightly as she realized what he'd seen; after the difficult conversation about Chad, Bob and Cindy wanted some time alone.

They went out together, hand in hand. For a while the only sounds were their feet on the grass and the rhythmic chirping of insects and frogs. "I forget," Daniel murmured. "How quiet it is everywhere else."

"And how many stars there are." Betty pointed upward at a spangled sky totally unlike the electric-fogged night of New York City. The heat, which had been nearly unbearable at noon, had settled into a pleasant, enveloping warmth. Tonight would have been dazzlingly beautiful at any time; with Betty here beside him, it was almost perfect.

But there was no forgetting why he was here.

The Pulaskis had a weathered white bench by the pond, and they sat together, side by side. Daniel said, "Well, you heard her. The stories match."

"It still doesn't mean anything," Betty insisted.

He breathed out. "I know. Chaniel could be mixing the truth in with the lies. Only the DNA can tell us anything for sure."

"That's not what I was saying."

Confused, Daniel looked at her. "What do you mean?"

A soft breeze fluttered Betty's long hair; her creamy yellow dress seemed to be made of the moonlight. She put one hand over his – the only way in which they touched. "When you told me you were coming down here, you said that you had to know who it is who loves me."

Daniel nodded. That seemed obvious.

She shook her head, smiling gently at him. "I already know who that is. It's the guy who bought me this necklace when I lost my first one." The fingers of her free hand found the B at her throat for a moment. "It's the guy who read that entire childish diatribe about him on my blog but still got up at the Blobbys in front of a booing crowd to talk about how wonderful I was. The guy who held me after Jesse hooked up with Amanda, the one who told me I was beautiful. The one who applauded for me when I walked on the MODE catwalk. The guy who stood with me on the Brooklyn Bridge. That's the man who loves me – the man I love."

The words washed over him, and Daniel felt as though he couldn't speak. The idea that Betty loved him back – knowing him, inside and out, she still loved him back –

It was the first time that being "Daniel Meade" had been meaningless. All the money, all the baggage, everything else just dropped away. Daniel felt as if he were setting foot on Earth for the first time in his life, touching down, solid and real. As if his skin and flesh were all he'd ever had and all he would ever need. It was enough to be himself, and that had to be true, because somehow, this miracle had happened. Betty loved him.

Even more softly, Betty said, "It doesn't matter what your birth name was. It doesn't matter what your DNA might be. I know who you really are, down deep. That's why I love you – and that will never change."

**oooooo**

They kissed for a long time, twined together on the bench. Betty linked her arms around Daniel's neck as she gasped in one deeper breath, let him kiss his way down her throat, then pulled him back to her lips. The warmth and nearness of him was overpowering, but it was the rawness of the emotion between them – the lack of any separation, now, except the physical – that made her feel almost weak with need.

When finally they broke apart, he whispered, "We should probably go back in. Say goodbye."

"I didn't get a hotel room," Betty confessed. "I thought – I thought I'd stay with you."

"God, yes." Daniel kissed her again, even more passionately than before, but only for a few moments. She understood; they had somewhere else to go.

Together they said goodnight to the Pulaskis, who seemed to have recovered their calm – and whose gentle, knowing smiles suggested they understood enough of what was going on to let Betty and Daniel leave in a hurry.

"I'll call about the story," Daniel promised, and Betty realized he already cared about them – and would even when they proved not to be his birth parents. Why had she worried about him being overcome? He had a bigger heart than most people gave him credit for. Her included, sometimes. Himself included. But now, tonight, they both understood the truth.

Somehow they managed to get back to Daniel's hotel, despite reckless placement of hands on thighs and some feverish making out at stoplights. It was a small place, not ritzy, but not cheap or ugly like she'd briefly feared; the room was cool, a welcome respite from the summer heat, and the bed was broad and soft when they sank onto it.

"I love you," Daniel kept whispering as they struggled with their clothes, breaking apart only long enough to take off his shirt, then her dress. "I love you so much."

"And I love you."

She shed everything except her B necklace; his hands covered hers when she went for the clasp, and she realized he wanted her to leave it on. That felt right, somehow. As right as the sensation of his hands on her body, his skin against her skin.

Before, when they were first becoming involved, Betty had experienced some intimidation at the thought of sex with Daniel, worldly as he was. But only once that whole night – the first time she saw him naked next to her, his whole sculpted body laid bare, and she thought _Oh, my God, he's perfect_ – did any of that hesitation cross her mind. Even then it vanished as he pulled her atop him, lips on her collarbones, her shoulders, her breasts. This was Daniel – her Daniel, the man she knew and loved better than any other – and nothing else could get in their way.

When they were finally moving together, moaning and beyond words, Betty knew that she'd never experienced anything like this. Sex, yes. Good sex, even. But she'd never felt as if she were giving anyone her whole self, beyond her body, without any hesitation or doubt. Nobody had ever given this to her, either, but she knew Daniel was totally with her in a way no other man had ever been.

_This is what I really wanted_, she thought in a daze. _What we both really needed. This is what matters most. _

**oooooo**

Alexis paced along the third-floor balcony of the house, longing for a cocktail. But this was Mom's house, and Tyler's, which was why she had nothing to comfort her but sparkling cider.

"I'm concerned about Tyler," Mom said, folding her arms across her chest. Her jade silken jacket gleamed; Mom's hair was expertly coiffed. Still, her mother was going on with business as usual. "He seemed extremely moody after he got back from Amanda's. Any idea what's up?"

"Your denial may have been a necessary survival mechanism during our childhoods, Mom, but right now, it's just getting in the way." Alexis put her cider down and turned to face her mother. "Did you even hear what I told you?"

"About Chaniel?" Mom spat out the nickname Daniel had given the man with the deepest contempt. "Honestly. Why are you all letting this man get to you?"

"Because he's credible."

_And because I never realized until now how much I needed Daniel to be my brother. How much we all need him. He's the glue. _

Downstairs, Alexis could hear DJ and Yoga laughing; apparently he was teaching her how to play Kingdom Hearts. The Meades had turned from a dysfunctional, angry family to a family where even that friendship was possible. How much of that would go away if Daniel wasn't Daniel? She didn't know.

Just then, her mother's phone chimed; Mom lifted it and smiled in triumph. "The DNA lab – the premier testing facility in the city. They put a rush on the results for us. So let's take a look and put this stupid matter behind us for good."

Alexis stood at her mother's shoulder as the file opened on the screen. At first all the numbers failed to make much sense, but the conclusions at the bottom would spell everything out.

They scrolled down. They read. Alexis felt her mother go very, very still.

She wanted to put her arms around Mom, but she couldn't move. All Alexis could do was think, _We just lost the glue._

END OF EPISODE

_Tune in to "Season Five: New York, New York" for the next episode – "My One and Only." _

_(Songs: "Family Tradition," Hank Williams Jr.; "Science and Faith," The Script; "God Put A Smile Upon Your Face," Coldplay)_


	22. My One and Only, Part One

Betty opened her eyes to see her B necklace lying on an unfamiliar nightstand, draped over a platinum man's watch. At first she only had a bleary memory of fumbling to lay it there as she'd been falling asleep – and only then did she recall where she was, and why, and with whom. That was also when she recognized the soothing touch of fingers stroking through her long hair, and a smile spread across her face.

She rolled over to see Daniel propped up on pillows next to her, his expression both weary and tender. No wonder he was tired, after the week he'd had – and the night they'd just spent together.

"Good morning," she murmured, propping herself up.

"Morning." He took her face in his hands and kissed her, slow and deep. Betty let him pull her across his body and cradle her against his chest; she surrendered to the kiss, head falling back, arms around Daniel's neck. Already she could feel her pulse quickening in response to him, both the way he was touching her now and her memories of the night before.

And yet there was something almost too intense about the way he held her …

When they parted, breaths fast and shallow, Betty said, "Are you all right?"

For a moment, Daniel said nothing. Then he nodded toward the other bedside table, where she could see his phone. "I woke up before you. At first I was going to get you up too – but you looked so peaceful – and I figured I'd give you a few more minutes. And then I realized I could check my email to see if I'd gotten anything forwarded to me … and I did."

"The DNA results." Why wasn't he celebrating? Or – no, it couldn't be –

"Turns out Chaniel was telling the truth after all."

Betty gaped at him. Despite all their various efforts to undermine Chaniel over the past few days, and this whirlwind trip to Missouri, she'd never seriously believed they were doing any of this for any purpose beyond steadying Daniel's nerves. She'd never contemplated that the guy could be on the level. But DNA results didn't lie. "Oh, my God. Daniel, are you okay?"

Daniel didn't answer at first; he was clearly struggling for words. "Maybe? I mean, just at first – when I read it – it was like something had, I don't know – like it just_ hit_ me and I couldn't breathe – "

Fiercely she pulled him back into her embrace. Daniel buried his face in the curve of her neck, his breaths coming deep and ragged – not tears, but the sound of someone fighting for control. Betty kissed his temple, his hair, clutching him close and feeling a stab of pure rage at Chaniel …

But that wasn't fair, was it? If Chaniel had only been telling the truth all along – well, he'd still acted like a jerk about it, but he couldn't have been much less confused or weirded out than Daniel himself.

That didn't mean she could accept Daniel being in so much pain.

Yet when he leaned back from her, the battle for control seemed to have been won. "I knew," he said simply. "Somehow, I knew. From the get-go. I should've written him off, but I couldn't. Sometimes you just have a feeling, and I guess I did."

_He really will be all right_, she realized. _Not today, not soon – but he will. He's stronger than I give him credit for sometimes. _

Betty thought of Bob and Cindy in their house across town – Daniel's parents! – and felt the strangeness of it all wash over her anew. "What are you going to do?" she whispered, stroking one hand along his unshaven cheek. "Do you want to talk to the Pulaskis?"

"I'm not ready for that yet." Daniel leaned his head against the padded headboard of the bed they shared, clearly considering. "I mean, they'll have to know soon – Jesus, I have a sister I never met – whoa. It's a lot."

She pressed her lips to his, a swift touch, meant to remind him only that he was still safe and loved.

Despite everything, he smiled at her and framed her face in his hands. "Thanks for being here," he murmured. "And you know – I'm going to be okay. It's like you told me last night; I'm the same person. I don't love my family any less. I know they don't love me less. And I'm still the man in love with the most amazing woman in the world."

Warmth flushed through Betty at the way he said that. Memories of last night – how he'd touched her, whispered to her, excited her – welled up, almost blotting out the dire situation he was in. But her love for him kept her focused. "What do we do now?"

"Head back to New York. Mom hasn't been in touch – because she's hoping I haven't seen it." His expression saddened more for his mother's sake than it had for his own. "She wanted me not to know any sooner than I had to. But she's got to be upset. I need to reach her and the rest of the family right away so we can figure out what happens next. Whether Chaniel gets any money, how we deal with him going-forward, all of that. Honestly – honestly, I want to make sure she doesn't start drinking. Mom's been great with her sobriety, but something like this – I don't know."

"She's tough," Betty insisted. "But yeah, she'll feel so much better with you there."

"Bob and Cindy – I'll come back out here soon. Let them know. See where they want to go from there." Daniel half-shrugged, a wistful smile on his face. "At least I liked them."

"They're great."

"Yeah."

Betty ran her hands through Daniel's scruffy hair, studying his face carefully. Although she suspected he already understood this, this was a good time to make certain. "Nothing about you has changed. Nothing that matters, anyway. You're still the most wonderful, caring guy I know. And I still love you like crazy."

"As long as that's true, I can handle everything else." Daniel pulled her in for a kiss – this one hot and searching – and Betty pulled him downward into their rumpled sheets. As his hands sought her body, she opened her mouth beneath his and let them both get lost in the moment.

**oooooo**

"You're brooding," Connor said.

Wilhelmina flicked a perfectly manicured hand at him, as if in dismissal. "If my facial muscles still reveal human emotion, I'll have to up my Botox dose. So are you serious or just talking through your hat?"

"I wouldn't have to look at your face to know. It's your silence, Wilhelmina. The way you go so still. That's always a sign your cobra mind is coiling up for a strike."

They sat on her terrace, looking out over the street far below. The mimosas they drank were weak, but enough to soften the hard edges of her Sunday morning. Wilhelmina had intended to spend the day talking with Connor about her dreams of leaving MODE – and perhaps the United States – but since her glimpse of Alex Meade's double a few days before, she'd been able to think of little else than the potential drama going on upstairs at Meade Publications.

_Could Claire have had twins? Is this the second coming of Tyler? Or perhaps Bradford had an illegitimate child to match his wife's. _

Yes, the possibilities were outlandish, but no more so than most of the ups and downs of the Meade clan over the past several years.

"I can't help sensing their weakness," she said, adjusting her sunglasses against the summer sun. "Asking me to ignore problems with the Meades is like asking a shark not to smell blood in the water at a distance of ten miles."

"You made me swear never to move against them again, for your sake." Connor sighed heavily. "And to some extent, I feel as if Daniel and I have made peace. Not friends – hardly friends – but no longer enemies. So seeing you like this sets me back."

He looked tired often these days. Tired and bored. Wilhelmina could hardly imagine the crushing frustration he had to feel. A man of Connor's talents and intelligence, relegated to the role of househusband in a home that had a cleaning service already: If he didn't chafe at the thought, she did for him. But whenever she tried to bring it up, he insisted that he needed nothing more in the world but her. Highly flattering, but unrealistic. Connor could no more content himself with Wilhelmina than she could content herself with him. This was why they loved one another – their insatiable appetites for sex, power, intrigue and excitement matched. Both of them would always need more, and would always want to cheer each other along the way.

But they could lead each other down a very dangerous path if they turned back to plotting against the Meades.

Didn't she like danger?

This reformation thing was difficult.

"I can't," she said, reminding herself as much as him. "What happened with Tyler – it was bad enough as it was, and could have turned out even worse. I can't go back there."

"Are you reminding me or yourself?"

Wilhelmina pushed her sunglasses slightly down the bridge of her nose, the better to study Connor's face. "Do you want me to give you an different answer?" she said. "Or do you just need me to remind you of your promise?"

He cocked his head, examining her as intently as she had him. "I might ask the same of you. Perhaps we both want the other to be the one to back down."

"Do you regret it? Telling me you'd never go against the Meades again?"

"No," Connor said. "Never. Willie – for you I'd do more than that. So don't put this on me. I said I'd stand down, and I meant it. But if you're changing your mind, this is the time to tell me."

She looked out over the city. In the bright morning light, you could even believe a place as filthy as New York City could shine.

"I won't change my mind," Wilhelmina said, and tried to mean it.

**oooooo**

Daniel tapped his credit card against the cab machine as he tugged his leather duffel over one shoulder, the better to get inside the house as soon as possible. Every second he was stuck out here watching "Taxi TV" was another second Mom was probably freaking out.

He and Betty had parted at the airport, kissing so heatedly that the taxi-stand attendant had asked them whether they didn't just want to take a shuttle to the nearest hotel. Her presence had sustained him throughout the morning, particularly during the flight home, which had seemed to last three days instead of three hours. Holding Betty's hand had felt like holding on to a lifeline. But they both understood that he needed to be alone with his family now. While Daniel could have shared even something this intimate and painful with her, he couldn't assume Mom, Alexis, Tyler and DJ would feel the same way.

As he hurried up the steps to the mansion, the door swung open; standing there was Yoga, a deep-set frown on her face. "Is she okay?" Daniel said instead of hello.

"Barely." Yoga ushered him in quickly. "Don't think she slept a wink."

_How does Yoga know how much my mother sleeps or doesn't sleep? Do I really want the answer to that question? Not today. That would be overload. _

They were all huddled in the morning room, and to Daniel's shock they each looked worse than he felt. Alexis' hair was yanked back in a sloppy bun that looked as if she hadn't washed it; Tyler leaned against the far wall with his arms crossed in front, as if hugging himself against a nonexistent chill. DJ hung his head, so obviously downcast that Daniel's heart ached for him. But worst of all was his mother, who lifted her face to see him with a trembling lower lip.

"Oh, Mom," Daniel said. "It's okay."

At the word _Mom_, her face crumpled, and he reached her just before she broke into tears.

Daniel wrapped his arms around her on the couch, folding her in his embrace. "It's okay," he said. "Mom, it's okay. We're going to be all right."

"How can you say that?" DJ spoke up first. "This bad person has taken everything away from you."

"Hey." He said it to DJ, but Daniel knew the whole family needed to hear it. "Remember when we found out I wasn't your dad? It didn't make me love you any less. Not one bit. Did it make you love me less?"

"Of course not!" DJ protested.

"This isn't any different. Nothing's changed. Nothing that matters, anyway." Daniel rubbed Mom's shoulders, and she pulled herself into some semblance of calm.

"Sweetheart, how are you holding up?" she said, smoothing his hair and his shirt collar as if he were still a boy coming home messed and unruly from school. The thought of that nurturing – given to him in error, but given all the same – made Daniel swallow a lump in his throat. "God, I hate this."

"I do too. But I'm holding up fine. I meant what I said." Daniel looked from one to the other, even including Yoga, who seemed to be part of the Meades now even if only his mother knew precisely how she fit in. "A family isn't about blood or chromosomes. It's about loving each other. That didn't change for me; I hope it didn't change for any of you."

"Of course not!" Mom hugged him again, and though she still looked exhausted and fragile, he could tell she'd taken strength from what he said – or, perhaps, from the fact that he was bearing up. She'd probably been suffering more thinking of his pain than her own. That was a mother for you.

And he was taking strength from all of them, too. As vulnerable and exposed as Daniel felt right now, he'd seen how they felt at the thought of losing him – and that was enough to tell him that they never would.

Was he actually dealing with this better than anyone else in the room? Apparently so.

Daniel straightened slightly and did something he rarely managed with both Mom and Alexis around: He took charge. "Okay. The lawyers will have to set up a meeting with Chaniel … maybe we need another name for him. I don't know. It has to be soon, but let's put it off to Tuesday. That gives us a day to figure out how we deal him into the business, if we do."

"We don't," Alexis insisted. "That fucktard doesn't know a damn thing about the magazine business."

Daniel pointed out, "I didn't either, not that long ago. But he's said he doesn't want any part of it. That means I can stay put. He's going to get partial ownership rights – either mine or an equal share carved out of the whole – "

"Equal share," Tyler said, shifting awkwardly from his place against the wall. "Dealing him in can't mean dealing you out."

"We have to make sure he can't start screwing with your decisions, though." Alexis had begun thinking tactically too; having a concrete matter to deal with had focused her. "That means making sure we retain the upper hand on all the boards."

"You'd have to return to Meade Publications," Daniel said. "You'd have to give up La Sagesse, wouldn't you?"

His sister had kept herself busy these past few years running "La Sagesse De Partage," a charity that worked to get lower-income students in France into the Grandes Ecoles colleges from which the nation's business and political leaders invariably graduated. Daniel thought it was an awesome idea, but he suspected his sister made an uneasy do-gooder.

She shrugged. "I can manage things well enough from here."

He doubted this but decided to trust her judgment. La Sagesse wasn't his concern, and he had enough to worry about at the moment. "So we get Alexis on the board, as of Monday. Tyler, we should get you in too."

"I don't know anything about magazines," Tyler protested. "Except posing for them."

"So vote like I tell you to." Alexis smoothed back a few escaped tendrils of hair; the gaze she directed at Daniel was almost unnervingly intense. "You've come a long way, Daniel. You wouldn't have understood how to head this guy off a few years ago."

"You'd have had to scrape me out of the gutter a few years ago," Daniel confessed. "But everything's changed since then."

Starting with Betty, he wanted to say, and would have, if DJ hadn't interrupted. "You're sure you're not sad, Daniel?"

Daniel put one arm around DJ. "I am sad. But I have my family with me, and that makes it okay."

DJ smiled and nodded. Mom rested her head against his shoulder, and Alexis sighed as if she was finally at ease. Tyler still seemed somewhat awkward – his own status in the family was so new that this was probably doubly weird for him, Daniel rationalized. Yet he knew that his brother remained in this along with the rest of the Meades.

How was it that he'd never felt his family's bond to be tighter than it was right now, when he knew it wasn't only blood? Daniel wasn't sure, but whatever it was, he was grateful for it.

Alexis broke the gentle silence between them by saying, "It's only a matter of time before the tabs get this, or Fashion TV."

"We'll deal with that when it comes," Daniel said. "I guess they'll have to find out eventually. At least the news is contained for now."

**oooooo**

"Daniel's a cuckoo in the Meade nest?" Marc said, aware he was gaping in a very inelegant manner but unable to stop. "Shut UP."

"Totally true." Amanda stuffed another fistful of caramel popcorn into her mouth. "So maybe that's why Tyler is being such a weirdo."

"I can't believe he didn't realize you and Daniel had bumped uglies."

"I know, right? We couldn't have been more obvious about it without putting it on one of the Times Square tickers. But I guess Tyler wasn't here for any of that."

They sat together in the photo studio, readying the Christmas shoot. Foil-wrapped stars hung in front of brilliant crimson glittery backgrounds, and various models milled about getting their makeup done and bitching about having to model white leather suits on one of the hottest days of the year so far. When January came, they'd gripe about having to model swimsuits in the snow. Models never did understand: Magazine reality wasn't like real reality.

As Amanda folded silver foil around yet another star, Marc wondered again about the shift in Daniel Meade's fortunes. How would he react himself if he found out he wasn't his mother's biological son? _With relief_, Marc decided; that wasn't easy to accept, but it was true. Another mom would be another chance at a mother who welcomed him no matter what. Although he missed his mom, and keenly felt the separation from the rest of his family, Marc didn't regret making his life all about the people who accepted him and saying goodbye to the people who didn't.

For Daniel – whom Marc had come to like despite himself – hopefully, things would work out better.

"I just don't get it," Amanda said disconsolately. "I thought Tyler liked me as a wild child. Wild children get around. That's where the 'wild' part comes in."

"It's a Madonna/whore complex," Marc decided.

Amanda frowned. "How does Madonna come into it? Does she have a new album out?"

"No, and hello, what's taking her so long? Does she _want _to be completely eclipsed by Gaga? I digress. The point is, Tyler has to accept you as who you are, and accept that you've done all the many colorful things you've done, or it won't work." Marc studied the placement of the stars in their red glitter sky and pushed one gingerly to the left. "Because, trust me, honey, there is no de-slutting you."

She nodded, accepting this as truth. "You can't put the champagne back in the bottle. Though you can put the champagne bottle back in your … "

"Please, no more," Marc interrupted, just in time. Amanda simply sighed and attacked the caramel popcorn with new vigor.

As she munched away, Marc heard some commotion from HUDSON's part of the photo studio. He glanced over and felt a smile light up his face as he glimpsed Cliff among the crew there. What would be a good excuse to saunter over? Marc decided that a sequined sling was excuse enough.

Sure enough, when he approached, Cliff excused himself from the others to meet him in the neutral ground between the two magazines' photo areas. "Marc! You're back!"

"Been here a week now," Marc said. "You can only watch so much 'All My Kids' at the homestead, you know? I wanted to return to my seat of power. Get back to the creative work at MODE."

Cliff folded his arms. "Wilhelmina only gave you one week off."

"Well, yes. That too." They shared a smile so conspiratorial that it reminded Marc of other shared jokes, far more private and personal. How could he remember everything funny thing Cliff had said to him even years later? "Heard you sold our big hostage-night photos for a mint."

"Enough for a down payment on an apartment!"

Marc had to stare. "Are you serious?"

"Well. If I'm willing to live above 200th Street."

Perish the thought. "Congrats on the big check. And the big get, too – VANITY FAIR. The cover, maybe? That would be something else. A big step for you." Marc hoped that Cliff would launch into his glorious plans for the future, all of which Marc could encourage and embroider upon as a subtle way of getting Cliff to envision Marc as a part of that future. Instead, a slightly awkward silence descended, which Marc ended by asking, "So, what's HUDSON featuring this Christmas?"

"Cashmere balaclavas and angora muffs."

"For men?"

"Hey, sometimes you've got to roll the dice. Or so they tell me." Cliff shrugged, a hint of his old sheepish grin on his face. "I still wear a pair of nylon gloves I got from LL Bean on clearance five years ago."

Obviously Marc still kept their old relationship alive in his heart, because he didn't even have to work to keep himself from shuddering at the memory of those things, reflective tape and all. Well, he didn't have to work very hard, anyway. "So, I still love coffee as much as I used to, but I'm finding it harder to add my own sugar with one hand. This makes me think I should invite someone to coffee with me soon. Someone like you."

Smooth, right? And there was no mistaking the moment of light in Cliff's eyes. But he shook his head. "Marc – I don't know. We shouldn't retread."

"We're not retreading," Marc insisted. "When's the last time you helped me while I wore a sling?"

"I didn't mean … never mind." Cliff ran one hand through his hair, which mussed his perfect coif into a semblance of its old sloppy self. This was how Marc knew he had it bad; he realized he'd actually missed the messy hair. Dear God. "Marc, I have to think about this. Okay?"

Although Marc wanted to scream, rend his hair and/or throw himself on the ground in a tantrum, whichever would be most dramatic, he managed to simply nod. "Then think and get back to me."

"Will do." Cliff gave him a searching look as though he wanted to say more – and Marc certainly longed for him to. But he simply turned back to the HUDSON shoot and the cashmere balaclavas.

Well, it was a beginning. It was okay if Cliff made Marc chase after him for a while; his arm might be in a sling, but his legs were just fine – and ready to run the distance.

**oooooo**

Betty braced herself in her office chair, winced, slowly extended one finger – and clicked on her in-box. Then her eyes widened, because it was even worse than she'd feared.

How could that much email have piled up over a weekend? How?

Then again, Betty thought as she scrambled to put them in some rough order of importance, maybe she'd gotten a bit spoiled at MODE, where staffers considered the weekends sacred. At NYRB, obviously, people were more likely to err on the side of workaholism – a mindset she hadn't exactly embraced yet.

Two more sets of potential edits to her article on Pachuca gangs of the 1940s – everyone polished everyone else's work here, and Betty found herself cringing at the sheer number of queries and comments she'd have to address. Then there were four more articles from other writers seeking her input; the topics ranged from the history of productions of "The Seagull" in New York to the conscription of children into Somali pirate gangs. She wouldn't even be able to start reading these properly until she'd done some research. How was she ever going to be able to research them all in time? And before the next story conference tomorrow?

As panic began rising, Betty took a few deep breaths, rationalized that the best way to deal with the fact that she had a problem was to admit it, and did what she'd always done in times of severe crisis: She took it to her boss.

But Jackson Noble wasn't Daniel Meade.

Jackson sat behind his desk (piled high with papers and galleys), underneath a poster advertising John Malkovich's Broadway role in "Burn This," and frowned. "I thought I'd made it clear that the workload here is demanding."

"You did. Absolutely. I think I just failed to understand how demanding 'demanding' could be."

He sighed. "Listen, Betty, your first pitch turned out to be dynamite. You have obvious talent and potential – anyone can see that. And I realize that, since you've started here, you've had to deal with some extraordinary challenges."

"Like amnesia."

"Exactly." Leaning forward across his desk – as much as he could, given the work piled high upon it – Jackson said, "We're giving you the time to get up to speed. But I need to see signs that you're using that time. The ups and downs of your personal life – even that nightmare with Victoria Hartley – you can't afford to let them take you over."

Betty felt stung. She'd expected to be told everything was all right, really; instead, Jackson was tacitly informing her that she was falling beneath expectations. Worst was the knowledge that he was being completely fair; obviously, he'd made more allowances for her various problems than she had made for her new magazine's different work ethic.

Cheeks burning, Betty said, "I'll be up to speed by the end of this week at the latest. Before then if I can manage it."

"That sounds like a place to start." Jackson pushed the bridge of his glasses up his nose. "Just remember – you can't divide your loyalties. You have to be willing to put this magazine first, at least some of the time. Enough of the time."

"No divided loyalties. Check." She nodded so quickly that her glasses got slightly jostled.

As she took her place back at her desk, she noticed that the mailroom guys had left a small package for her – a padded envelope from "Meade Publications." Betty tore it open to find a note from Daniel:

_Maybe it doesn't count as a "present," exactly, but I missed you so much last night that all I could think about was giving you these. _

From the bottom of the envelope she shook out a set of keys, obviously the keys to Daniel's apartment.

Betty folded her fingers around them almost reverently. While Daniel had possessed a copy of her keys since a few weeks since she'd moved into her Manhattan flat, that had been purely about friendship and emergency backup. This was deeper, a tangible symbol of the fact that their relationship – even though it was new – was significant, important, committed. She hadn't needed keys to tell her that, but she still liked the feel of them in her palm.

No, she wouldn't have traded this weekend for anything, even if it had put her even further behind at NYRB.

But what now? How was she supposed to deal with everything she needed and Daniel needed and a demanding job on top of that? How could her loyalties be anything but divided?

_This isn't Daniel's fault_, Betty thought. She'd sidetracked herself to deal with his crises before – but this time, he hadn't asked her to. She'd made that decision on her own. And she refused to believe there wasn't a way to be loyal to the people she loved and the job she intended to hold for a long time to come.

**oooooo**

Daniel had never been a big fan of Mondays. First of all, they started off the workweek, and he still hadn't quite worked his way around to being a fan of workweeks, period. Second, in the past month, he'd been forced to realize how much of his Monday coping mechanism was looking forward to walking in and seeing Betty in the morning – now that she was across town.

This Monday, though – this one was supersized. Extra-Monday. Monday with double the weight.

The whole day, he had to attempt to take care of MODE and Meade business while sneaking in conference calls with his family and their lawyers. The legal team seemed to agree that the courts would be far more likely to give Chaniel an equal share of Meade than they would be to disinherit Daniel and hand his part over. "Good faith," "established relationship," "work history," blah blah blah: It all boiled down to the fact that Chaniel almost certainly couldn't throw Daniel out of the family business. With the rest of the family allied behind Daniel, there was no way it could ever happen.

Would that remain true, though?

Daniel didn't doubt for a second that his mother, Alexis and DJ loved him precisely as much as they had before. But Alexis had dealt him dirty a few times – more than a few – even while loving him. Family affection was no guarantee, with her. Then again, the chances of her allying herself with Chaniel instead seemed remote … at least, for the time being.

Tyler had been oddly quiet and strange ever since the big reveal. Their relationship was, perhaps, too new to take a blow like this without suffering from damage. Only a few short months ago, Daniel hadn't wanted to let Tyler into the Meade family at all – and this despite thinking they were definitely related by blood. Could he blame Tyler for not reacting any better? And maybe Tyler would come around, just as Daniel had. Though hopefully it wouldn't take another hostage crisis to put things right: After the Victoria Hartley incident, Daniel profoundly hoped never to deal with anything like that ever again.

The one bright spot in his long, long day was thinking of Betty. Around lunch, he sent her his keys; maybe it was too early to ask her to move in, but at least he could make it clear that he liked thinking about it. Although she seemed as deeply swamped at work as he was, they exchanged a few texts during the day – just little updates and hellos and hearts – that nonetheless felt like his lifeboat in a stormy sea.

Between the work and the meetings, Daniel didn't get to walk out of Meade Publications until almost 10 p.m. As he got in the elevator to ride down, he saw that Sofia Reyes was already there in a tailored red suit, looking as tired as he felt.

Had he ever actually been freaked out by the mere possibility of riding in an elevator with her? God, the days when his problems had been that small seemed so pleasant, and so far-away.

"Hey, Sofia," he said, gratefully unknotting his tie. "How's NYW doing?"

"Trying to think of ways to boost circulation – so, like everyone else in the building."

"That's the truth." MODE remained strong and steady; the rest of Meade Publications was only marginally better from where it had been a year and a half ago when the company had nearly folded. "We might have an editors' retreat in a month or two – get people together to brainstorm. No dates yet, but we'll let you know, okay?"

Sofia cocked her head as she studied him. "Do you know, that's the first time you've spoken to me totally naturally since – well. You know since when."

Daniel shrugged. "The past is the past." Already the whole debacle with Sofia felt like something that had happened in another life, to another Daniel. In some senses, it had.

"Well, I just wanted to say that I'm glad we can talk again."

He wasn't sure they were anywhere near the chatty-friends stage, and was trying to think of a tactful way to say so, when the elevator doors opened and he saw Chaniel standing in the lobby. Waiting for him, no doubt.

His first impulse was to flee. Where was the emergency exit? Maybe somebody could pull the fire alarm.

Then he realized this was inevitable. He had to face Chaniel sometime; maybe it was better now, before the tomorrow's hearing. But he knew he didn't want anybody watching.

Daniel turned to Sofia. "Listen, I need to talk to … this guy. In private. If you don't mind."

Sofia instantly said, "You know, I've never given the side door a fair chance."

When he grinned at her this time, the smile was finally real.

As her heels click-clacked across the marble floor, getting farther away, Daniel steered himself toward Chaniel. To his surprise, Chaniel looked less triumphant, more intimidated. Maybe he'd finally looked up the sheer number of addictions and psychological disorders than ran in the Meade family.

"Waiting for me?" Daniel said, trying to keep his voice even.

"Waiting for – our mother," Chaniel replied. Maybe the _our _was meant to be a concession to the fact that Daniel still belonged to the Meade family; still, it grated.

"She didn't actually come in today. Yoga's looking after her at the house."

"She's doing yoga at the house?"

"No, that's – you'll find out." Daniel wasn't nearly ready to sit down and give Chaniel a primer on the Meades. Let him discover it all exactly how Daniel had: The hard way. "You need to take it easy with Mom tomorrow. This is going to take a lot of time, for her. If you rush her, you'll make it worse."

"To me it feels like I've been waiting a long time already." It was the kind of thing Chaniel had said before, always cocksure and defiant; now Daniel could hear an edge of loneliness beneath his voice. Finding out you were swapped at birth couldn't be easy, even if it did play into your own arrogant ambitions. That wasn't exactly sympathy Daniel felt, but he saw a human being standing there now, instead of a monster.

So he spoke more gently. "Mom's going to have to forgive you for being who you are. Forgive the Pulaskis for raising you. Forgive fate. A lot of things." Daniel rolled up his sleeves in preparation for walking out into the sweltering night. "The first thing you'd better understand about being a Meade is that it's not about raking in the dough. Mostly it's about doing a lot of forgiving."

Chaniel blinked at him, clearly not understanding. He seemed to think Daniel was taunting him in some way he didn't comprehend, because he shot back, "I've done nothing to forgive."

"I doubt Bob and Cindy would say so."

"You talked to them? Already?" Chaniel's face whitened, and both anger and vulnerability battled beneath the surface of his studied expression.

"No. But I met them this weekend. Just ... talked."

"So you see where you should have come from all along." The way Chaniel said this made it clear that he thought nothing could be more humiliating – as if there were anything to be ashamed about in that little white house near the pond.

Daniel's resolve to keep his temper frayed. "I see that Bob and Cindy deserved a better son. Maybe now they'll get one."

With that, he pushed his way through the door; Chaniel didn't follow.

Though it was a long walk and the city was sweltering, heat radiating upward from the pavement that had soaked up sun all day, Daniel went home on foot. He wanted the time to just breathe and be. To see how many things around him hadn't changed, and how his place among these tall buildings and glittering lights had always been pretty insignificant. Swaggering around as the scion of the Meade family all those years – it had never been anything but a crutch for his insecurities, and he found he preferred walking on his own two feet.

When he went inside his front door, he glanced down to the small bench he'd put for people's shoes – where a pair of yellow polka-dotted heels rested.

Smiling, he kicked off his own loafers and headed through the apartment. However, everything seemed quiet. A few of Betty's papers were spread out in the home office, and her emerald-green handbag rested on the kitchen counter, but Betty herself seemed absent.

Then he walked into the bedroom and saw her lying there, fast asleep.

_She came here to surprise me when I walked in_, Daniel realized. _But I worked so late, and she had such a rough day, that she ran out of gas. _

He hung up his clothes, put away his things and crawled into bed beside her. As he lifted the covers, Betty stirred and opened her eyes. "Oh, no," she whispered. "I was only going to nap."

"Shhh." Daniel pulled her into his arms, kissed her forehead, breathed in the soft scent of her hair. "Go back to sleep."

"No, no. I'm awake. I am." Betty propped herself up on one arm. She wore only the white camisole that must have been under her dress and her underwear; Daniel had intended to let her rest, but seeing those curves again – the curves he'd only just started getting to know – filled him with more energy than he'd known he still possessed. "I wanted to see how you were doing."

"Fine." He kissed her cheek, then her shoulder, as he cupped one hand around the curve of her thigh. "Better than fine. How are you?"

Betty blinked, obviously stirring to wakefulness. She arched against his touch in a way that told him she wasn't nearly ready to fall asleep again yet. "I worked late at the office. Then I worked late here."

"Anything interesting?"

"Did you know Vanessa Redgrave's performance as Anna in 'The Seagull' is the one by which all other actresses are judged?"

"Yeah, Bar Rafaeli and I were talking about that just the other day." Daniel kissed the tip of her nose as she giggled at his joke.

Even as she smiled up at him, dark eyes shining, he could see her deeper concern. "Are you sure you're okay?"

He felt more certain of his place on earth than he ever had, and Betty loved him. How could that ever be called merely "okay"?

Daniel rolled her onto her back, covering her body with his own. As he lowered his mouth over hers, he whispered, "I'm the luckiest guy in the world."

**oooooo**

Several blocks away, on the terrace of one of the better hotel bars in Manhattan, Chaniel stood with his martini in hand. At the sound of footsteps, he turned his head. "Wondered when you'd make an appearance."

"I couldn't get away earlier," said Connor Owens.

"You were the one who demanded the meeting. You could at least be on time."

"Wilhelmina can't know about this." Connor ran one hand over his close-shorn hair. His skin felt grimy with panic sweat. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Fulfilling the plans we made together," Chaniel shot back. "Or have you forgotten?"

"It was my plan. Mine. You were never supposed to do this without me."

"It's not my fault you lost your courage."

"That's not what happened."

When he'd first been released from prison, Connor had remained angry at Daniel Meade for reasons both valid and invalid. Months of forced inactivity had taken a toll as well – he'd needed to strike out at someone, anyone, and he'd had this in his back pocket for a while. So he'd approached Chad Pulaski and shown him the possibilities.

He'd never envisioned this spiraling so far beyond his control.

Chaniel said, "If you didn't chicken out, why did you leave me to execute this on my own?"

"Willie understood I was up to something regarding the Meades. She was completely wrong about what it was – but it doesn't matter. She made me swear to drop it, and I have." He'd sworn on his love for her, which was the one promise he could ever make that was truly sacred. Connor sighed heavily as he leaned against the terrace railing. His downcast eyes absently counted the mustard-yellow cabs darting along the dark streets beneath. "I thought maybe she wanted to take that back – but she doesn't, and it hardly matters. I don't need revenge against Daniel Meade any longer."

"Little late for that, don't you think? Because I still need a family." Chaniel looked almost wistful. "Do you suppose it's true after all? I can't help wondering. The family resemblance – the shared birthdays – and now, the DNA test."

Connor hastily interjected, "They went to the premier lab in the city; the Meades would never have considered going anyplace else. I bribed the testers there long ago. Remember how I told you that?"

"And yet, the results might have been the truth. Why would the testers return the bribe if all they had to do was tell the truth? I suppose you might ask for a refund, but it's tricky business."

"Stop deluding yourself," Connor snapped. It was important to get a handle on this, immediately. "You need to walk away. Get out of New York. Leave the Meades alone."

"Too late for that. The test results are in." Chaniel took the final swallow of his martini and gestured to the waiter for another. "I'm seeing this through, Connor, whether you like it or not. And you're going to let me. You have to, don't you? Because if you reveal that this was your scheme all along – you'll lose Wilhelmina. And with a prison record, no job and no money, you'd be left with absolutely nothing. Wouldn't you?"

Connor didn't answer. He couldn't. It was all too true.

The waiter brought the next martini, but Chaniel pointed at Connor. "It's for him. I suspect he needs it." As Connor numbly took the drink, Chaniel said, "You'll get the tab, won't you?"

Then he strode off, leaving Connor standing there in the night, utterly alone.

_Continued tomorrow -_


	23. My One and Only, Part Two

"I think you're using a weak transition to lead into an incredible insight," Betty said, tucking one lock of hair behind her ear and hoping that little bite mark didn't show beneath the shoulder strap of her burnt orange dress. "What you're talking about, with the connections to themes in 'Hamlet' – that's too good to bury. I think you should bring that out a lot earlier, and a lot stronger."

The writer – a bony woman with an asymmetrical haircut and chunky glasses frames that screamed "Williamsburg, courtesy of a down payment from the trust fund" – nodded and smiled slowly. "You're right. I thought of that angle late – but it deserves more attention than I've given it."

"Nice points, Betty," Jackson said, and though his voice was light, the glance he gave her was meaningful.

Somehow, against all odds, she'd gotten more or less up to speed in only a day. That was because she'd thrown herself into research all day long, feverishly reading sources both online and paper. Because she'd hauled books home to work at Daniel's, curling up at his trendy aluminum-and-recycled-timbers table to write and read for hours before she'd finally crashed in his bed.

Then Daniel had come home, and work had been the last thing on her mind the rest of the night – or for one glorious hour early this morning – but she'd still had time to double down on her efforts in the final minutes before the story meeting. Betty felt like she needed to sleep for a thousand years, but she also felt like she was a real, contributing member of the NYRB staff. That was worth having to chug an extra cappuccino.

Jackson flipped through his notes before adding, "And actually, Betty, you're up next."

She adjusted her glasses and took a deep breath. "The drag article has evolved from one that featured Pachuca gangs in passing to one focused on the gangs, and only later connecting them to society's fascination with drag. I'm looking at why this side of Latina culture, and homosexual culture, is so much forgotten – and why the former members themselves often act as if they prefer to forget their time on the other side of the law."

Everyone still seemed focused on her. That had to be good, right? Betty hoped she didn't have part of her apple Danish still stuck in her teeth or something.

Plowing on, Betty said, "This is more than mere historical revisionism, or even the happy amnesia all of us sometimes use to veil our own pasts." As someone who had just lived through a more literal amnesia, she understood too well how seductive it could be to lay aside later complications and focus on more innocent times. "I think that the significant thing to bring out is that these women always had to lead divided lives. They were loyal to their heritage as Mexican women – but that came with certain traditional baggage about what women should and shouldn't be. They were loyal to one another as lesbians – but that asked them to stand apart from their other identities. They always had one foot in another world; they never got to be just one person, in just one place. It's complicated. I think working on the theme of divided loyalties not only plays up the problems these women faced, but leads well into talking about today's drag culture – where mainstream fashionability is at war with drag's radical and transgressive origins."

People around the table nodded and murmured. Nobody dove in to edit her – not because of lack of interest, Betty thought, but because they agreed. Maybe … maybe they were even a little bit impressed.

"Nice work," Jackson said, and he clearly meant it. This time, when Betty's cheeks flushed, the reason was pride.

Once the meeting was over, Betty hurried back to her office; she might have made a lot of headway in twenty-four hours, but she still had a lot of editing to do before the end of the day – and today, it was especially important to leave on time. As she sat down at her desk, though, her phone rang; she looked down at the screen to see her latest "Contact" photo of Hilda, one taken while she had on no makeup and one palm extended toward the lens, as if to block the picture. "Hilda! What's up?"

"Just checking in on your big story meeting. It went okay?"

"Went great, actually." Betty couldn't resist a grin. The same divided loyalties that had tormented the Pachuca gangs weren't holding her back; she could be loyal to everyone in her life, in their own place and time. "Are you guys headed to Papi's appointment at the cardiologist?"

"Any second now, if someone will decide what tie he wants to wear already!"

In the distance, Betty heard her father protest, "It's not the right shade of red! I've been reading MODE for the past four years, you know. I have standards now!"

Stifling her laughter, Betty said, "You'll call me right after, okay? Let me know how it goes?"

"Actually, I was thinking – if they see us on time, and God only knows with the doctor's office, am I right? But if they do, we would get out in time to come to Daniel's hearing. You said it was open to friends and family. Well, we're both. If you think he'd want us there – "

"Oh, Hilda, I know he would!" Betty's heart seemed to swell within her chest. "This is going to be hard for him, no matter how well he's been handling it. This hearing – it's the moment he gets divided from the person he always thought he was, you know? Having people who love him close by has to help."

"Okay, text me the address, and we'll try to be there." Hilda paused. "Tried to call you about this last night at your house. Were you out?"

"I was at Daniel's." That should have been obvious, Betty thought.

"Of course. He needed a friend there – oh, okay, now you're happy with that tie? We can actually go see the doctor who helps keep you alive?"

With great dignity, Papi answered, "Once you find a better handbag."

"Oh, my God! This one. The fashionista! We gotta go, Betty. See you this afternoon at the hearing, okay?"

"Okay!" How great that Daniel would have a whole cheering section there for him.

Something about that conversation seemed a little off to Betty, but she couldn't quite put her finger on what. It couldn't have been very important, though. All that mattered was reclaiming her job, her boyfriend and her family – bringing them together instead of letting them pull her apart.

**oooooo**

The lawyers sat in front of Daniel like a sort of wool-blend Stonehenge – gray, staring monoliths that seemed to have him surrounded.

"You'll retain your positions at MODE and Meade Publications overall," said the grayest among them. "Those are matters of employment rather than inheritance."

"Good to know," Daniel said. Although the salaries he drew were only a small fragment of what he was used to living on, it was good to know he could rely on them. "The rest?"

"You'll retain a part ownership in the Park Avenue mansion, though of course your part will be diminished from a third to a fourth. The same goes for your ownership share in Meade. More problematic are the funds you've inherited from relatives other than your father; those wills often speak about Bradford Meade's younger son, which no longer appears to be you."

Daniel winced. Great-Aunt Thelma had been probably his most generous benefactor. "Do I have to turn that money over to him?"

"We can probably negotiate a fifty-fifty split."

Half of his personal net worth was still a lot of money – and yet only half of what it had been before. He tried to make a joke of it: "Good thing I paid for my apartment in cash, huh?"

"It's unlikely that the other Daniel could assert any property rights."

_The other Daniel. _Those words remained difficult to hear. Then again, he couldn't expect the guy to go by Chaniel forever.

"Have we heard from his lawyers yet?" Daniel asked. "About what he wants?"

"Nothing specific. We'll have to wait for the hearing."

With a sigh, Daniel nodded and made his way through the rest of the meeting.

Today was a somber one at MODE. Although his mother had been well enough to come in to work, she remained holed up in at HOT FLASH, trying to lose herself in the time-consuming, brain-numbing work of reviewing magazine proofs. Alexis had been setting up her new office with unsettling zeal. Wilhelmina had taken to casting narrow-eyed glances in his direction, the kind of looks he remembered from a few years ago; they usually meant he was about to be blackmailed or fired. But he figured right now, Wilhelmina Slater was the least of his problems.

At least, at lunch, he had the time to cheer himself up in the best way possible.

"Why do kosher delis always make the best chicken soup?" Betty asked as they settled in at a corner table in the crowded deli. The roar of the lunch crowd ironically made the place feel more private; Daniel could say anything and not be overheard. "They do, though. Is there something about, like, being sacred that makes the soup better?"

"I don't think this place is sacred. But yeah, the soup's great."

She gave him a look. "You haven't touched yours."

Busted. "I guess I still don't feel like eating."

Betty reached across the table to take his hand. "Is it sinking in?"

"Trust me, it already sank. Like the Titanic." Daniel sighed. "I meant what I said. I'm going to be okay. This hearing, though – it's going to hurt."

"I'll be there. So will lots of other people who love you. We're going to be by your side the whole way."

"Don't leave work early for me." She'd told him about the weirdness at NYRB. How could anybody fail to see how spectacular Betty was from day one? Well, okay, he had, but he was still acting like a doofus back then. Other people should have higher standards.

"I won't. But I'll get there no matter what," Betty promised.

He rubbed his thumb against her palm, little circles. "You know what gets to me the most right this second? He wants to be called Daniel. And I definitely don't want to be called Chad."

"That's going to be weird," she agreed. Then a small smile played on her lips. "I guess we could rename you."

"Oh, yeah?" It hurt less, making a game of it. "What name would you pick?"

"I don't know. Something sexy." Her fingers caught one of his, the smallest and most playful caress imaginable, but it was enough to send warmth coursing through him.

"Sexy." Daniel pretended to think about it with great concentration. "Like, say – Mumford."

"Mumford?" Betty's laughter rang out over the lunch-rush din. "No! Something super hot. Really hot. Like Jerome."

"Jerome. Jerome Mumford Meade-Pulaski. Yeah, let's go with that." He couldn't help grinning. It was tough to keep his spirits up today, but Betty always found a way.

**oooooo**

_If the ex will not come to an afternoon coffee, the afternoon coffee will just have to come to the ex. _

Thanks to his vigilant security efforts (i.e., bribing L'Amanda with the promise of his next swag pick from the MODE Closet), Marc was alerted when Cliff left the building in midafternoon. If old habits held true, he was headed to that afternoon coffee, and Marc knew just the spot he preferred.

_This isn't stalking_, he thought as he hurried through the lobby, adjusting the lapels of his magenta jacket for maximum suavity. _It's – romantic-comedy stalking! So much different. Not nearly as disturbing or likely to lead to prosecution. _

Sure enough, as he rounded the corner, he saw Cliff heading into his old favorite, Cup-A-Cino. Marc rarely went there – it was all so homey and plain and low-key, none of which were his adjectives. But it was just Cliff's kind of place, and if that was where Marc was to drink his afternoon coffee every day for the rest of his life, then he'd do it happily.

He hurried in – dear God, it was blazing hot, and smelling like sweat would not help his suit here – and realized that Cup-A-Cino was almost empty. It was after the lunch rush, before the oh-lord-how-do-I-get-through-the-rest-of-the-afternoon-without-caffeine rush. Cliff already sat at a table by himself, a steaming mug in front of him. He raised his head only as Marc walked right up to him.

"Hot coffee even in summer," Marc said, taking a seat. "You never go for the iced coffee."

Cliff said, as Marc had known he would, "Iced coffee isn't coffee." Marc mouthed the words as they were spoken, which made Cliff grin. But the smile faded quickly. "Listen, Marc – "

"I know. I know. I heard you, okay? But I don't think you heard me."

Running one hand through his hair – getting shaggy again, oh sweetly familiar sight – Cliff said, "Marc, please."

"You want me to drop it," Marc said. "And I don't blame you. Cliff, the way I treated you – it was selfish, and stupid, and hurtful. I've regretted it every single day of my life since. Because you were the guy. The one. The Mr. Big to my Carrie Bradshaw. I was never as happy with anybody else as I was with you. And I thought – tell me if I'm wrong, but before I went and messed everything up, I thought you were happy with me too."

For a long moment, they only stared at one another. Everything in the coffee house seemed amplified to Marc: The jangly neo-sixties music on the speakers, the smell of roasting java, the way the afternoon sunlight slanted across the far side of the room. Then Cliff nodded … the smallest gesture, but one that sent hope blazing through Marc's heart.

He continued, "I've always known I wanted another chance. But I don't think I dared to hope that you might want one too until this." A flick of Marc's fingers took in the sequined sling, and what it stood for – that terrible night when Victoria Hartley had shot him, and they'd all come far too close to dying. "You shielded me, Cliff. You risked your life for me. And maybe it's empty saying this, just words, but I swear to God, if you'd been the one hurt, I would have done that for you. Because I still love you. I know you don't love me again yet, but if you'd give me another chance, I think we could make it work. I really do. Please think about it."

That was the longest non-ironic speech he'd ever given, Marc thought. He'd have to hand in his Manhattanite card. But weren't they in a post-ironic society? Wasn't it time to be sincere?

Looking at Cliff, he definitely thought so.

It seemed like ages before Cliff spoke. Maybe thirty whole seconds. But finally he met Cliff's eyes again and said words almost too glorious to believe: "Of course I still love you."

"Oh, my God." It actually made Marc's head swim. Was this what it meant to swoon?

But Cliff was shaking his head. "Marc, what we had is over. I hate it as much as you do. But I've faced facts. We're done. I'm trying to move on, and you should too."

"Wait, wait." He held his hands up in a T; Cliff had told him once they did that in sports to call a time-out. "I love you. You love me. How are you getting from there to 'we're done'? We're not done! That was just Act One. It ended badly, but that doesn't mean you don't come back after intermission!"

"Yeah, it does. Marc, you didn't just hurt me. I loved you more than I've ever loved any other guy, and you crushed my heart. I mean, crushed. It was two years ago and it still hurts almost every freaking day."

Marc thought of that night – that stupid, hurried tryst mid-party, some guy he'd never seen again or wanted to, the few seconds of pleasure it had bought him. He'd known even then how high the price would be, and yet he'd done it. "I'm so sorry," he whispered. "You can't know how sorry."

"I do know. But I also know you did it anyway, because we were getting closer to really being something and you couldn't handle that." Cliff's hands kept gripping the coffee cup, turning it around and around, the one outlet for his agitation. "Marc, you're a romantic. You expect … somebody to see you, and you see them, and it's all 'Some Enchanted Evening' and nobody ever has any problems ever again. Real relationships aren't like that. They're tough. They take work, and patience. Commitment even when it's hard. And I don't think you can do it. So I can't trust my heart to you again. If you broke it one more time, I'd never get it put together."

This couldn't be happening. Marc tried once more, "I'm here, aren't I? This isn't easy. This is tough. And I'm willing to fight for us if you are."

"I'm not."

Silence fell, except for the hiss of the espresso machine. Marc felt like he could throw up, or cry. Either would be intensely humiliating. He thought he might try both at once, in a sort of ritual suicide of his dignity.

Finally Cliff said, "Listen. This is awkward, but – "

"How does this get _more_ awkward?"

"I came here to meet a blind date."

"… and there it goes."

"I need to finally start over." Cliff couldn't meet his eyes any more. "Please let me try."

What else was there to do? Marc had always heard there was something called "giving in gracefully." It didn't feel graceful. It felt like landing hard on the ground, like one of those pennies dropped from the Empire State Building that could kill a man.

But if there was nothing else he could do for Cliff, then he had to do this.

"Okay," Marc said, rising from the table. "Okay."

Neither of them said goodbye. At least in Marc's case, that was because he didn't trust himself to say anything else without choking up. He walked out of the coffee house as fast as he could, head down, staring only at the gleaming toes of his shoes as he went away as quickly as he could.

_It's over_, he thought. _It's all over. _

Then slammed into someone, full-body, WHAM.

"Oh, my God! I'm so sorry!" the guy said, catching Marc's good arm to keep him from toppling off balance. "Are you okay?"

Their eyes met.

He was beautiful: African-American, almost as tall as Marc was himself, angular cheekbones, full lips, close-shorn hair, and impeccable silk T and designer jeans. A model, maybe? What caught Marc's attention the most, though, was the look in his eyes – dreamy, almost awestruck. In this guy's heart, right that moment, a full orchestra was playing "Some Enchanted Evening."

And Marc might have been right on the same page, if his heart hadn't just been smashed to smithereens by his one true love.

"I'm fine," Marc said. "No injuries. Beyond the pre-existing," he added, with a small shrug of his sequined sling.

"Didn't hurt your arm worse, did I?" The man had started to smile.

"Nah." It twinged, actually, but Marc felt he'd become more macho about this kind of thing since being shot. He'd make Mandy pet him and give him Excedrin and Perrier later. "Sorry. Wasn't looking where I was going."

"You could've walked right past your stop. I'm Roderick," the man said. Which was all very sweet and promising until he said, "Please tell me you're Cliff."

This was Cliff's blind date. This perfect, gorgeous, considerate man was about to walk into Cup-A-Cino and walk away with Cliff for all time.

Marc managed to point at the coffee house before he hurried off, wishing his shoes weren't too tight for him to run, because he wanted to run as far away from this as possible.

**oooooo**

Thanks to some super-concentrated effort throughout the afternoon, Betty was able to walk out of NYRB's offices bang on time, all caught up, and with only a few files emailed to her home account for review in the morning. She'd actually make it to Daniel's hearing in time, and be able to spend the whole evening helping him cope later on.

Quickly she dashed into the nearest ATM lobby to grab some twenties; afterward, Daniel might want to go to that little wine bar that only took cash, and he never remembered to carry actual money. As she punched in her PIN, she overheard a familiar voice from the corner of the lobby saying, "I can't believe you're going through with this."

That was Connor Owens, wasn't it? Betty glanced over, not particularly surprised to see him – but astonished to see that he was talking to Chaniel.

Chaniel frowned at his own ATM. "Overdrawn. I suppose that's the last time I'll see that word – because, yes, I'm going through with this."

"I told you it was a bad idea," Connor insisted. "You should have dropped the scam the moment I said so."

_It's a scam! It's all a scam! And Connor's behind it! _Betty wanted to whirl around and start shouting at them both, but instead she pressed herself closer to her own ATM, hoping to avoid sight. Unfortunately, she also hit the key that said she wanted her instructions in Portuguese.

As she tried to figure out what the Portuguese for "fast cash" might be, Betty kept listening so intently she could almost feel her ears standing out from her head. Chaniel said, "I still don't know who my birth parents are. So I think I'll take these."

"They're Daniel's family. It's Daniel's life. You can't just take it from him!"

"Thanks to you, I can."

Betty punched almost randomly at the screen – oh, hey, that was right! – and thought fast. She could text Daniel right away – well, once she got out of this building with all this weird interference. If she could reach the hearing before it began, maybe take a taxi instead of the subway, she could tell the authorities too. Daniel could put Chaniel in his place, reclaim his family and it would all be over.

Connor said, "They'll find you out."

"Not if you keep quiet. And you will, won't you? Or Wilhelmina will drop you faster than last season's handbag." Chaniel stalked out. Connor simply stood there, and Betty remained in place, determined not to give the game away. If he saw her, he could warn Chaniel.

Though – he'd been arguing against the scam, hadn't he?

Finally Connor walked out, and Betty breathed a sigh of relief. She slung her bag over her shoulder and hurried out the door –

-or tried to.

As Betty went through the door, it suddenly lost all its swing, clamping itself shut … or almost shut, since her ankle and her wrist were jammed between the door and the wall. She tried to tug her way through. "Ouch!"

"What happened?" said someone, who clearly wanted to get in to use the ATM.

"I think – I think the door's lock was activated." Betty pulled again; it hurt her foot more this time. She could have pulled her hand through if she'd been willing to let go of her handbag, but with her foot still stuck, that didn't help. "Is there anybody in the bank?"

"They look closed, lady." A nearby hot dog vendor had taken an interest too. "Somebody oughta call the cops."

"I have a cell phone – " Betty stared at her oversized handbag, containing said cell phone, and realized there was no way she could reach it with the door stuck like this, half in, half out. "Oh, my God. Someone, help!"

"The ATM door's eatin' somebody!" the vendor yelled, and a crowd began to form. They were all interested in gawping, but nobody seemed to have a way to get her out of here … and give her a chance to warn Daniel.

**oooooo**

"Lawyers are way hotter on television," Amanda complained as she sashayed through the hallway of the law firm on Marc's good arm. "I mean, who fitted these people's suits? They all look like potatoes in neckties. Especially the women."

"Welcome to the dreariness of real life." Marc couldn't pretend to be anything but depressed. Even the sparkle of his sequins appeared to be mocking him. "It's all ugly people and hard truths and unfortunate fashion trends, and then you die."

"Cheer up, little tomato. The way I see it, you got good news today."

"How do you see it? Through a screen that shows you Bizarro Earth, home of Bizarro Superman?"

Her eyes narrowed. "That was surprisingly geeky of you, Marc."

His teenage nerd-dom was better left forgotten. "How is today good news?"

"Cliff's not over you. Nothing else matters." _Easy for her to be blithe_, Marc thought, and he might have snapped at her if she hadn't sucked in a sharp breath as Tyler rounded the corner. "Tyler! Hi! We're here for moral support!"

Tyler nodded slowly. "Thanks," he said, and he seemed to mean it, but he didn't try to take Amanda's arm from Marc. Her face fell, and he pulled her a little closer. If all the guys in the world turned away from them at once … at least they still had each other.

**oooooo**

He should have hugged Amanda, Tyler knew. Thanked her. Just knowing she was near soothed something within him: That remained true.

But she was his brother's ex-girlfriend. Ex-lover. And apparently they'd been involved for a long time. Years, maybe? Tyler couldn't bring himself to ask, but it seared him not to know.

Was she only with him because he was the closest thing to Daniel she could get?

During the entire Chaniel saga, Tyler had been reminded just how new a family member he was. All of them dealt with the crisis smoothly, or so it had seemed to him; the bonds they were tormented by losing were bonds he hadn't fully gained yet. The memories tainted weren't his memories. It wasn't that he doubted their love for him, or his love for them, but it was a bad moment to find out that Daniel had even gotten to Amanda first.

When Tyler walked into the conference room for the hearing, though, he saw Daniel sitting near the front, looking very pale and tense. Obviously this wasn't the time to fixate on his own insecurities; he needed to think of somebody else for a little while.

Tyler took a seat beside Daniel, who looked up quickly, then slumped back … disappointed, apparently. "What's the matter?" Tyler said. "Right this second, I mean. You can make a list if you have to."

"I thought you might be Betty." That's right, Tyler remembered – they were friends. "Glad you're here."

"Where else would I be?"

Daniel shrugged.

Tyler realized then that he'd let his bad mood show the past few days, and that Daniel had thought it was about this whole DNA thing. How stupid could you get? "Hey. I'm here for you. All right?"

"Wouldn't blame you if you weren't." Daniel sighed and twisted his neck, as if it were sore from tension. "I mean, I gave you a hard enough time about being in this family, and it turns out you always belonged here, but I never did."

Only the most important things mattered now, Tyler decided; all the stuff about Amanda could wait. "Listen, no matter what the tests say, or what happens in this hearing, I know who my brother is. He's the guy who walked into that hostage situation to try and get me out. End of story."

"Okay." Daniel clapped one hand on his shoulder, and they were on the same page again, at least for the moment. But he kept glancing toward the door, and Tyler overheard him mutter, "Where can Betty be?"

**oooooo**

"Everybody stand back!" the fireman said as he lifted the power saw. "Cover your ears, and if you used hairspray or some of that gel stuff, look out, because the sparks can set hair on fire!"

"Oh, my God." Betty stared at the blade, which was being angled against the door only about a foot over her trapped wrist.

The crowd began to murmur as the power saw started roaring, and Betty shrank down as far as possible. Her foot was starting to go numb, and every single fiber of her being thought it would be better to wait for the bank technicians to override the faulty security lockdown – but the hearing was starting, any second. They'd sign papers at that hearing, papers that might be binding no matter what truths might later come out. And every moment Daniel believed he was somebody he wasn't was a moment too long.

She'd just have to deal with it.

As the cutting started, and the vibration rocked her, Betty put her free hand over her head and yelped, "Is mousse flammable too?"

**oooooo**

"I'm sorry," the security guard said. "Only invited family and business associates are permitted inside for the hearing."

"Oh, I get it." Hilda brushed her hair back from her face and gave him her most winning smile. "You think we're, like, paparazzi or something. We'll, we're not. I mean, look at us!"

Her father drew himself up at his most dignified, though the big medical bracelet he still wore around his wrist kind of took away from that. Elena looked great, as did Bobby – aw, her sweetie – and of course _she_ was fantastic. Justin and Austin, though … they did look a little too eager to get inside. Maybe if Austin would stop bouncing up and down on his heels.

"Invited family and business associates only," the guard repeated.

"They're family," said Wilhelmina Slater, of all people. Her lavender linen sheath dress exactly matched the rims of the Jackie O sunglasses she wore. "Very distant cousins, let's say. I'll vouch for them."

The guard was unimpressed. "And you are?"

Justin gaped. "Hello, this is Wilhelmina Slater, number one fashion diva of the past decade, editor of MODE and woman whose Ferragamo heels you are unworthy to polish."

"That's enough, Justin." Wilhelmina's eyes crinkled slightly at the corners as she looked at him, as close as somebody like that could get to a smile, Hilda figured. "I thought we'd hired you, young man. Maybe it's some other eager little gay person. Hmm. Anyway, if you check, sir, you'll see my name is on the list."

"No guests are – " The security guard's protest trailed off as Wilhelmina gave him a stare icy cold enough to freeze lava. No doubt about it: They were in.

_I gotta ask her how she does that_, Hilda thought.

**oooooo**

"This little punk can be whipped into shape," Yoga said, the faintest of smiles appearing on her face as the elevator display announced they were on the 32nd floor … the 33rd … the 34th. "Anybody can be whipped into shape. You learn that in the joint. Whipped you into shape, didn't I?"

Despite the gloom in her heart, Claire managed to grin back. "I suppose this doesn't count as the lowest moment in Meade family history. But only because there's so much competition. If I just felt something for Chaniel … the other one, I mean. Something at all."

"Takes time."

"I know." Claire rubbed at her temples. "But Daniel … he was always the one I was closest to."

"That doesn't change."

"No. It only makes me wonder how many things I was wrong about."

"Fish, you were wrong about only three things in life." Yoga counted them off on her fingers. "You used the poisoned perfume your husband's ho-bag gave you, you kept hitting the bottle until the bottle hit you back, and you walked around all this time thinking you were straight. That's it. You love your boy because he's your boy. Nothing's wrong about that."

"What did I ever do without you?"

**oooooo**

As the frame of the bank door fell away, Betty stumbled free and the crowd began to applaud. She couldn't quite stand straight – the day to try mega-high wedges was not the day your whole leg went numb – but she was able to brace herself against a NO PARKING sign.

"All right! Nothing more to see here! Move along!" the fireman yelled. "You okay. You need to see a doctor or something?"

Betty pushed her hair back from her face, aware that she probably looked a little like she'd been caught in a tornado. Grease marks from the door ringed her ankle and wrist. "No. I'm fine."

She went for her bag – but the hearing would already have begun. Even Daniel wouldn't answer his phone during a legal proceeding. If she didn't get there as fast as possible, Chaniel might win.

So Betty turned back to the fireman and said, "Actually, can you get me someplace in a really big hurry?" And she gave him her absolute best, most brilliant smile.

Which, she thought, was probably how she wound up riding downtown on the back of a fire engine, with its lights flashing and sirens wailing to tell Daniel she was on her way.

**oooooo**

Daniel kept searching for Betty until the judge finally came in and began calling them to order, several minutes late. He took one more look at his cell phone, hoping for a text or at least something … but nothing.

_You know she tried_, Daniel told himself. _Probably she's stuck on the subway. The main thing is being with her afterwards. _

Then he looked around the hearing room and saw all the people seated nearby – each and every one, besides Chaniel and his lawyers, there to support him. Even Alexis and DJ, both of whom he'd had to lose in order to find again. Even the whole Suarez family, including the ones he'd hardly spoken to, like Elena and Austin. Even Wilhelmina, whose sole purpose in life had once been to take him down, and Marc, who'd done a very good job of helping her. Even Tyler, the brother he'd tried to throw away, and Amanda, the girl he had thrown away and who had forgiven him despite it. Even _Yoga_. Jesus.

And always, of course, Mom.

He'd lost nothing that mattered. And maybe he'd gained something worth having – the sure knowledge of just how many people in this world had his back.

Smiling slightly, Daniel shut off his phone and turned toward the judge. From the corner of his eye he could see Chaniel frowning – no doubt confused about Daniel's calm in the face of adversity – but that guy didn't really matter.

The judge said, "We are here today to redress an old mistake. I understand lawyers for both parties have proposals about the fair redistribution of the Meade family fortune?"

"We have very different proposals," said one of Chaniel's lawyers. So the guy wanted an even bigger piece of the pie.

Just let me keep the apartment, Daniel thought.

But then the back doors of the hearing room flew open with a bang, and a voice cried out, "Stop! That man is lying!"

Astonished, Daniel turned around to see Connor Owens standing there – one finger pointed at Chaniel.

"It's all a lie," Connor said, brushing off the security guards that had only just caught up with him. "And I should know. I helped him tell it."

**oooooo**

Betty was kind of surprised that a big law firm like this one didn't have any security personnel at their front desk, but she was glad to have no delays between her and the elevator, and between the elevator and the hearing room. 47A, 47B, where was it? She limped slightly as she ran – circulation was returning to her leg, but slowly – and made it just in time to see Connor standing in the doorway ahead of her.

She came closer as she listened, mouth agape with surprise as Connor confessed. "Years ago, when it was first revealed that Chad Pulaski had been switched at birth, the hospital came to Bradford Meade during the investigation. He put the papers aside – and when I was in charge of Meade finances, I came across them. I … had hard feelings toward Daniel at the time. I did a little digging of my own and then put them aside, in case I ever wanted to use them later."

This was hard for him to say, Betty realized as she crept into the doorway; his posture was like that of a man who expected to be struck at any moment. Yet Connor kept talking.

"This spring, I thought I would use them. I contacted Pulaski and told him about the possibilities. He was in. A few hundred-dollar bills to some technicians at New York's leading DNA banks, and the con was as good as set. But then, Wilhelmina – she told me she was loyal to the Meades again. That she wanted them protected at any cost. She knew nothing of my plan, nothing at all, but I knew that if she found out, she'd be furious. So I dropped it. I told Pulaski it was called off. He went ahead without me."

Betty could see into the hearing room now. Everyone looked as completely flabbergasted as she felt, but perhaps Wilhelmina most of all.

Connor finished, "I think Pulaski actually hopes it's true, that he's a Meade after all and this was a con built on the truth rather than a lie. That's because I didn't tell him something I learned on my own … the hospital made two errors with him, not just one. They got his birthdate wrong. He was actually born just after midnight, not before – so he should be looking at boys born the next day. One of them, he was swapped with. But not Daniel, who is definitely, absolutely, the only Daniel Meade."

For a moment, nobody spoke – until Amanda leaped up, hands in the air, and yelled, "Yes!"

Then everybody was clapping and cheering, hugging each other and carrying on. She was thrilled to see Claire immediately wrap Daniel in a bear hug that was quickly joined by everybody in the Meade clan. The only ones not joining in the instant celebration were Chaniel and his lawyers (who looked pretty angry at him); Wilhelmina, who was sitting very still in the back row; and Connor, who stood in the door way, almost limp with exhaustion.

Betty put one hand on Connor's shoulder. "Thank you," she said. "You did the right thing."

"Just in time to go back to prison," Connor replied. "And have Willie throw me out on my ass."

"Doing the right thing when it's hard is when it counts most."

"You're like a greeting card that never stops." But Connor smiled at her tiredly as he said it.

Betty pushed her way into the room and into the heart of her family, who stopped bouncing up and down only long enough to get in the bounce with her. Well, Papi didn't bounce, but he was cheering as loudly as the others. "This is amazing!" Hilda yelled as she hugged Betty.

"The checkup went okay?" Betty asked, and only grinned wider as her father nodded.

"I'm ready to party!" Papi declared. "There's gonna be a party after this, right?"

"With Daniel Meade? You better believe it!" Justin said, high-fiving Austin.

Then Betty pressed on, past Amanda and Marc, who were doing a kind of improvised disco dance; she joined in "the bump" for a couple seconds before hurrying up toward the Meades. Daniel finally saw her. "Betty!"

"Daniel! I'm coming!" But she was jostled slightly as Chaniel and his legal team started stalking out of the hearing room. "Excuse you," she grumbled.

Over the din, Daniel yelled, "Hey! Pulaski!"

The entire room fell silent. Chaniel turned back to face him – and try as she might, Betty couldn't see a heartless schemer there. She saw a guy who had no idea who he was, and no idea how to find out.

Everyone, including Chaniel, was clearly expecting Daniel to put him in his place. Wasn't it his right?

But Daniel said only, "Call your mom."

Chaniel's eyes widened, but he simply hurried through the door without saying another word.

Instantly everyone started laughing and cheering again, and Betty finally got to Daniel and threw her arms around him. "It's over," she whispered. "It's all over."

"Nothing's changed. Nothing changed before; nothing changed now." Daniel leaned back from her, a tender smile on his face. "I know who I am, and I know who loves me. Who I love." He frowned. "Hey, are you all right?"

"Fine. I'll explain later." She couldn't resist the smile spreading across her face. "Right now I have better things to do."

Betty took Daniel's face in her hands and kissed him; he returned the kiss, wrapping his arms around her waist, opening her mouth with his own, kissing her with all the enthusiasm and joy she knew he felt in his heart. She knew because she felt it too. And nothing in the world could be more perfect than this –

-but wasn't it awfully quiet in here all of a sudden?

As their lips parted, Betty looked out over the courtroom of people – both their families, and their friends from MODE – all of whom were staring at them wide-eyed, like the two of them had just sprouted antlers. Hadn't they ever seen a boyfriend and girlfriend kiss before?

_Wait a minute_, she thought. _They don't know about us! _

_Well, they didn't. They do now. _

Never letting go of her, Daniel whispered, "I may have forgotten to mention something."

"Me too." Betty started to laugh. "I think they get the picture." Just in case they didn't, she kissed him again.

**oooooo**

The afterparty, in Daniel's opinion, was one for the record books.

No, it wasn't the wildest bash he'd ever been to; his building's rooftop deck was nice enough, and they'd managed to get champagne ordered in, but it was just a few string of lights for decoration, besides the glittering cityscape beyond them. Nor was the guest list large: Only the friends and family who had come to his hearing. But that was what made it great.

Even the unlikeliest guest of all.

"Your father shut down the investigation," Connor said. He sat on the very edge of one the wicker chaises, forearms on his knees, as if he were determined not to be at ease. "He wasn't interested in pursing it any further."

Daniel thought that over. "Once he knew I was his, you mean. After he found out about the birth date mixup."

Connor shook his head. "No. I mean, your dad didn't care. He just shut it down, period."

"He – didn't know whether I was his birth son or not. And he didn't want to know if Chaniel was."

"Guess not."

As the realization dawned upon him, Daniel turned to Betty, who was curled next to him on the chaise. "Betty – he picked me."

"What do you mean?"

"Don't you see? Dad didn't want another son. He wanted me." His whole life, he'd thought his father looked at him and only saw his flaws. He would never have dreamed that there had been a moment when Dad had been able to choose whether or not to continue thinking of Daniel as his son – or that, if the choice came, Dad would pick him. But it had been true all along. "He picked me," Daniel repeated, and this time Betty understood. She wrapped her arms around him for a moment, until he could swallow the lump in his throat.

When they parted, Connor looked even more embarrassed to be there than before. "I should go."

"If you want to stay, it's all right with me." Daniel gestured over at Wilhelmina, who still looked rather icy at the far corner of the deck. "Take her some champagne. Might help."

Connor squinted at Daniel as if he were having to translate all this from some unfamiliar language. "You're – not pressing charges. You're not even mad."

"You took it back in the nick of time. That's the main thing," Daniel said. "As for the rest – can we finally let this all go now?"

"Absolutely." Connor put his hand out for a shake, Daniel took it, and it felt like dropping the heaviest weight ever. To judge by Connor's smile, he thought so too.

As Connor headed over to the champagne waiter, Hilda bounded up to them, as giddy as a high-school cheerleader. "This is how I learn about the big romance? You two don't tell anybody, just start making out in public?"

"You call that making out?" Daniel slipped his arm even more firmly around Betty's waist. Her skin was so warm beneath that pretty dress; the best moments of this party were going to happen after everybody else went home. "We haven't even gotten started."

"Stop it." Betty swatted him, but playfully. "Hilda, I'm sorry. You were right. We have some serious catching up to do."

"And we're gonna do it," Hilda promised, but her eyes were already flicking back and forth between them speculatively. "Some other night, I'm guessing."

"Hilda!" Although Betty's cheeks were flushed, she was giggling, as caught up in the bubbly delight of the evening as he was.

This was when Mom swaggered up, holding a glass of the sparkling cider he'd ordered in for her and Tyler. The look on her face couldn't have said "cat that ate the canary" any louder unless she'd actually had yellow feathers sticking out from her lips. "Oh, no," Daniel said. "Here it comes."

"Where what comes?" Hilda looked back and forth between them.

Laughing, Daniel held one up one hand as if he could hold it off. "Mom, say anything – anything! – but don't say –"

"I told you so," they finished in unison, and Mom looked even more pleased with herself, if that was even possible.

Betty frowned. "You told him so? About Chaniel?"

"About you, dear." His mother took a seat too near them and patted Betty's arm. "I've been expecting this for quite a while."

"Longer than us, then," Betty said. She put her head on Daniel's shoulder. "But we caught up. Didn't we?"

"We did." Daniel thought there was nothing left in the world that could make him unhappy at this moment. Nothing at all.

**oooooo**

Outside Betty's building, a finger pressed the buzzer to her apartment for the third time, still hoping against hope. He'd tried calling, but apparently she wasn't answering right now. She was … out. Even Betty sometimes went out on weeknights.

That was okay. He'd talk to her soon. And then maybe they'd finally be able to put some things right that should never have gone wrong.

With that, Matt Hartley shouldered his bag and walked down the street, into the night.

THE END

_Tune in next time for "Boys Will Be Boys." _

_(Songs: "White Knuckles," OK Go; "There And Back Again," The Legends; "L-O-V-E," Joss Stone)_


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